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PRESENTED  TO  THE  LIBRARY 


OF 


PRINCETON  THEOLOGICSL  SEMINSRY 


BY 


f/lps.  Ale3<^andep  Ppoudfit. 

BV  4315  .M3  1881 
Macleod,  Alexander,  1817 

1891. 
The  gentle  heart 


^J^ 


THE    GENTLE    HEART. 


"  Suftereth  long  and  is  kind  ;  envieth  not  ;  vaunteth 
not  itself,  is  not  puffed  up,  doth  not  behave  itself  un- 
seemly, seeketh  not  her  own,  is  not  easily  provoked, 
thinketh  no  evil  ;  rejoiceth  not  in  iniquity,  but  rejoiceth 
in  the  truth  :  beareth  all  things,  believeth  all  things, 
hopeth  all  things,  endureth  all  things," 


THE   GENTLE    HEART 


A   SECOND  SERIES 


''  Calkins  to   tbe  Cbi(bren." 


ALEXANDER  AIACLEOD,  D.D, 


ROBERT    CARTER    AND    BROTHERS, 

530,    BROADWAY. 


.MDCCCLXXXI 


/^» 


BUTLER  St   TANNER, 

THE  SELWOOD  PRINTING  WORKS, 

FROME.  AND  LONDON. 


IN  ME  MORI  AM  : 

ALEXANDER,  AND  MARY  MACKENZIE  MACLEOD, 
OF    NAIRN    AND    GLASGOW. 


CONTENTS 


PAGE 

I.    THE    GENTLE    HEART I 

II.    SOME    GENTLE    DEEDS 21 

III.    A    NEIGHBOUR 35 

IV.    ON    DOING   WHAT    WE    CAN        .            .            •            •  45 

V.    OF   NOT    DOING    WHAT    WE   CAN         .            •            •  59 

VI.  Christ's  letters 7* 

VII.    ON    PUTTING   THE    RIGHT   THING   FIRST  .            .  85 

VIII.    ON    GIVING    PLEASURE   TO    GOD           .            .            .  lOI 

IX.    NICOLAS    HERMAN HI 

X.    god's   THOUGHTS    ABOUT    LITTLE    PEOPLE         .  I29 
X:.    THE    PATIENCE    OF    MARGARET    HOPE         ,            -139 

XII.    THINGS    WHICH    GOD    HATH    PREPARED    .            .  I5I 

XIII.  CHRIST    RESHAPING    THE    SOUL          .            .            .  165 

XIV.  ON    THE    EVIL    OF    FORGETTING    GOD          .            .  183 
XV.    NEVER   TOO    LATE    TO    MEND                .            .            -199 

XVI.    MAN    CANNOT    LIVE    BY    BREAD    ALONE     .            .  209 

XVII.    SILLY   jack's    PARABLE 227 

XVIII.    A    boy's   ACT   AND    WHAT    IT    LED    TO        .            .  239 

XIX.    PITCHERS   AND   LIGHTS 255 

XX.  A   GENTLE    MASTER   AND    HIS    SCHOLAR     .            .  265 

XXI.  BOB  :    SOME    CHAPTERS    OF    HIS    EARLY    LIFE     .  283 


THE  GENTLE  HEART 


THE  GENTLE  HEART. 


THE  other  day  a  friend  brought  me  a  song 
which  was  sung  in  Italy  six  hundred  years 
ago.  He  called  it  "  The  Song  of  the  Gentle 
Heart."  It  is  a  song  in  praise  of  gentleness  in  the 
life,  and  of  gentle  deeds  and  words  and  thoughts. 
And  what  the  song  says  is,  that  all  gentleness  has 
its  home  in  the  heart;  and  that  unless  there  be 
gentleness  in  the  heart  there  can  be  none  in  the 
life. 

At  the  time  this  song  was  sung,  there  were  many 
who  thought  that  gentleness  could  only  be  found 
in  palaces  and  castles,  and  among  the  people  who 
dress  in  splendid  clothes.  But  the  song  says 
that  it  may  also  be  found  in  the  most  humble  cot- 
tages, and  among  people  whose  hands  are  rough 
with  daily  toil.  It  is  the  gentle  heart  which  makes 
people  gentle.     Whether  a  home  be  rich  or  poor, 


TJie  Gentle  Heart. 


if  those  who  live  in  it  have  gentle  hearts,  that 
home  is  the  dwelling-place  of  gentlefolks. 

After  hearing  this  song  I  could  think  of  nothing 
else.  The  words  of  the  old  singer  kept  sounding 
like  music  in  my  soul.  And  I  also,  as  if  I  had 
got  back  his  eyes,  began  to  see  his  visions. 

And  all  the  bypast  week  these  visions  have  been 
coming  to  me.  When  I  went  out  into  the  country, 
they  met  me  in  lonely  roads.  When  I  went  into 
the  town,  I  saw  them  in  the  crowded  streets. 
Night  and  day,  and  every  day,  they  came.  And 
every  day  they  seemed  brighter  than  the  day 
before.  At  last  I  said,  I  will  bring  them  into  my 
words  to  the  children,  and  they  shall  be  visions  for 
them  as  well  as  for  me.  I  will  call  them  Visions 
of  the  Gentle  Heart. 


One  of  the  first  visions  of  the  Gentle  Heart  I 
saw  came  to  me  hid  under  the  rough  form  of  an 
old  Roman  soldier.  If  I  had  seen  him  only  when 
he  was  dressed  for  battle,  I  should  not  have  thought 
of  him  as  gentle.  I  should  have  seen  him  carrying 
a  sword  to  kill  men  with,  and  a  shield  to  defend 
himself  from  being  killed  by  others.  And  as  he 
had  other  soldiers  under  him,  I  might  have  heard 


The  Gentle  Heart.  5 


him  speaking  to  them  in  a  loud_,  commanding  way, 
and  telling  them  to  do  hard  and  cruel  things. 

But  when  I  saw  him  his  sword  and  shield  were 
hanging  on  the  wall,  and  he  was  sitting  beside  a 
little  bed  in  his  room  in  the  soldiers'  barracks. 
After  one  of  his  dreadful  battles  he  had  got  for  his 
share  of  the  spoil  a  little  boy  who  had  been  taken 
captive — a  poor  little  boy,  torn  away  from  father 
and  mother,  and  forced  to  be  a  slave.  He  was 
the  slave  of  this  soldier ;  he  cooked  his  food,  he 
tidied  his  room,  he  polished  his  armour,  he  went 
his  errands.  Just  a  little  slave — nothing  higher. 
This  rough-looking  soldier  might  have  beaten  him 
every  day  if  he  liked ;  nobody  would  have  found 
foult.  He  was  his  own  property — ^just  as  his  horse 
was — just  as  his  dog  was — and  he  might  have  sold 
him  like  any  other  property. 

But  under  the  outside  roughness  of  this  soldier 
was  a  gentle  heart.  He  did  not  beat  his  slave ; 
he  loved  him ;  he  looked  upon  him  as  his  own 
son  ;  he  let  the  little  man  have  a  home  in  his 
heart.  It  was  a  joy  to  him  to  see  the  child  happy  ; 
it  was  a  grief  to  him  to  see  him  sad.  And  it  was 
a  great  grief  to  him  when  one  day  the  little  slave 
fell  sick.  Then  the  rough  soldier  was  as  tender  as 
a  mother  could  be.    He  sat  by  his  bed  ;  he  watched 


TJie  Gentle  Heart. 


over  him  day  and  night.  Many  a  time,  I  am  sure, 
as  the  thought  came  into  his  heart,  '^  My  Httle  boy 
will  die,"  the  hot  tears  came  rolling  down  his 
cheeks.  And  he  thought  the  boy  was  really  about 
to  die ;  the  little  fellow's  breathing  became  more 
feeble,  his  face  grew  very  pale,  his  eyes  were 
closed. 

One  day,  as  the  big  soldier  was  sitting  by  the 
little  bed,  somebody  came  in  and  said,  "A  great 
prophet  has  come  to  the  town.  Jesus  of  Nazareth 
has  come.'' 

''Jesus  of  Nazareth?"  the  soldier  said;  "the 
healer  of  sickness  ?  Oh  that  He  would  heal  my 
boy!" 

But  then  this  thought  came  into  his  mind,  "  I 
am  a  soldier  of  the  nation  that  is  ill-treating  the 
Jews.  I  am  not  worthy  that  a  Jew  so  good  as  He 
should  do  anything  for  me."  Then  other  thoughts 
came,  and  in  his  great  love  for  the  boy,  and  know- 
ing that  Jesus  could  heal  him,  he  at  last  ventured 
to  send  this  humble  message :  ''  O  my  Lord,  my 
servant  is  near  to  die,  and  thou  art  able  to  save 
from  dying.  I  am  not  worthy  that  Thou  shouldst 
visit  my  house.  But  only  speak  the  word,  and  he 
shall  live.  Thou  art  Lord  of  health  and  sickness, 
as  I  am  a  lord  of  soldiers.     Say  to  this  sickness. 


The  Gentle  Heart. 


'  Depart/  and  it  will  depart.  Say  to  health,  '  Go 
to  this  soldier's  servant,'  and  health  will  come  to 
him,  and  he  shall  live." 

Now  when  Jesus  received  that  message,  a  great 
joy  came  into  His  heart;  and  He  said  to  health, 
''Go  to  that  soldier's  little  servant,  and  make  him 
well,  for  I  have  not  found  a  heart  so  gentle  as  his 
master's — no,  not  in  all  Israel." 

And  He  had  no  sooner  spoken,  out  on  the 
street,  than  the  thing  He  commanded  was  done. 
Health  came  back  to  the  sick  boy  in  the  soldier's 
house.  The  eye,  in  which  there  had  been  no  light, 
opened  ;  a  little  smile  passed  over  the  worn  face  as 
he  saw  his  dear  master  still  nursing  him.  And  the 
gentle  heart  of  the  master  swelled  up  in  thankful 
joy,  as  he  stooped  down  and  kissed  the  child 
whom  Jesus  had  made  well  again. 

II. 
My  next  vision  also  took  me  back  to  old  times, 
but  not  so  far  back  as  my  first.  It  was  to  times 
that  were  very  evil  I  was  taken.  There  was  a 
wide  open  place  in  an  ancient  city,  and  a  great 
crowed  of  people  standing  far  off  in  a  ring.  Inside 
of  the  ring  were  priests  and  soldiers  in  black  cloaks 
and  red.     In  the  centre  was  a  stake  of  wood,  with 


8  The  Gentle  Heart. 

faggots  of  wood  piled  round  about  it.  And  there 
chained  to  the  stake  in  the  midst  of  the  faggots, 
was  an  holy  man  of  God,  whom  evil  priests  were 
about  to  burn,  not  because  he  was  bad,  but  be- 
cause he  had  preached  the  gospel  of  Christ  to 
men. 

Then  I  saw  the  evil  men  putting  a  light  to  the 
faggots  ;  and  I  saw  that  the  faggots  were  wet,  and 
slow  to  catch  fire,  and  the  slow  burning  of  the  fire 
was  a  great  agony  to  the  man  at  the  stake.  And 
then  came  to  me  this  strange  but  real  gleam  of  the 
Gentle  Heart.  Out  from  the  crowd  stepped  an 
old  woman  with  a  bundle  of  dried  faggots  and 
some  straw.  She  set  them  on  the  pile,  on  the  side 
the  wind  was,  and  they  blazed  up  at  once.  And 
I  saw  a  look  of  thankfulness  come  over  the  face  of 
the  poor  sufferer  as  he  said,  half  speaking  to  God, 
and  half  to  her,  "  Oh,  holy  simplicity  !" 

It  was  the  holy  simplicity  of  the  Gentle  Heart. 
She  could  not  bear  to  see  his  slow  pain.  Since 
he  was  to  die  for  Christ,  for  Christ's  sake  she 
shortened  his  suffering. 

Id. 

That  vision  faded,  and  instead  of  the  evil  fire  I 
saw  a  beautiful  garden  in  Geneva.     I  saw  a  young 


The  Gentle  Heart. 


couple,  with  happy  faces,  come  out  of  the  house, 
come  down  the  garden  walk,  and  seat  themselves 
beside  a  beehive.  It  is  Hliber  the  student  and 
Aimee,  his  beautiful  wife.  What  we  read  now  in 
books  about  the  queen  bee  and  the  other  bees,  and 
the  honey  and  the  wax,  was  found  out  for  the  most 
part  by  this  man.  He  spent  his  life  in  the  study  of 
bees.  But  look  !  he  is  blind.  He  has  been  blind 
for  years.  He  will  live  till  he  is  an  old  man,  and 
be  blind  to  the  end.  And  yet  to  the  end  he  will 
watch  the  ways  and  find  out  the  secrets  of  the 
bees.  And  he  will  be  able  to  do  this  because  the 
gentle  Aimee  is  by  his  side.  Her  friends  said  to 
her,  "  Do  not  marry  Francis  Hiiber,  he  has  be- 
come blind."  But  she  said,  "  He  therefore  needs 
me  more  than  ever  now."  And  she  married  him, 
and  was  his  happy  wife  and  fellow-student  forty 
years.  She  was  eyes  to  the  blind.  She  looked 
into  the  hives,  and  he  wrote  down  what  she  saw. 
And  she  never  tired  of  this  work,  and  she  did  it 
with  her  whole  soul.  And  the  story  of  the  bees, 
as  it  was  seen  and  written  in  that  garden  by  these 
two,  will  be  read  in  schools  and  colleges  when 
Hiiber  and  his  beautiful  Aimee  are  themselves 
forgotten. 

It  is  a  hundred  years  ago  since  they  began  to 


10  TJie  Gentle  Heart. 

study  the  bees  together,  and  they  are  both  long 
since  dead.  But  still  shines  out  for  me  in  the  long 
helpful,  patient,  and  loving  service  of  Aimee,  the 
Gentle  Heart.  And  it  was  of  that  very  heart,  I  am 
certain,  her  husband  was  thinking  in  his  old  age, 
when  he  said,  "Aimee  will  never  be  old  to  me.  To 
me  she  is  still  the  fair  young  girl  I  saw  when  I  had 
eyes  to  see,  and  who  afterwards,  in  her  gentleness, 
gave  the  blind  student  her  life  and  her  love." 

IV. 

After  that  I  saw  an  island  on  the  coast  of  Africa. 
And  in  the  island  I  saw  a  house  for  lepers,  with  a 
great  high  wall  round  about  it.  And  I  beheld,  when 
a  leper  or  any  one  else  entered  that  house,  that  the 
gates  of  the  great  walls  were  shut  upon  them,  and 
they  never  more  were  allowed  to  come  out.  The 
house  was  filled  with  lepers — lepers  living,  lepers 
dying — and  no  one  to  care  for  their  sufferings  or 
speak  to  them  of  God.  Then  I  beheld  two  Mo- 
ravian missionaries  bidding  farewell  to  their  friends 
on  the  shore,  crossing  over  to  the  island,  coming 
up  to  the  gates,  and  passing  in  amongst  the  sick 
and  the  dying,  to  nurse  them,  to  preach  to  them, 
to  live  with  them,  and  never  more  go  out  from 
among  them,  till  they  should  be  carried  out  dead. 


The  Gentle  Heart. 


V. 

Among  my  Christmas  cards  this  year  was  one 
from  a  dear  old  friend  in  the  north.  And  among 
niy  visions  of  the  Gentle  Heart  was  one  in  which 
he  was  the  centre.  It  is  a  long  while  now  since 
he  retired  from  business  and  turned  for  work  to  his 
garden  and  his  flowers.  But  it  is  nearly  as  long 
since,  as  he  went  along  the  crowded  streets  of  the 
town  in  which  he  lives,  and  saw  homeless  boys 
and  girls  on  the  pavement,  the  thought  came  into 
his  heart  to  gather  the  orphans  among  them  into  a 
home.  So  he  gave  only  a  part  of  his  time  to  his 
garden  and  his  flowers,  and  the  rest  to  provide  this 
home.  And  the  home  was  built,  and  the  homeless 
ones  gathered  into  it — a  large  family  now.  And 
in  that  home,  and  for  that  home,  my  friend  spends 
many  a  happy  hour.  He  is  justly  looked  upon  as 
the  father  of  the  home.  Yet  he  is  so  modest  that 
his  name  never  appears  in  the  reports  of  the  home, 
except  among  the  names  of  the  directors,  and  those 
who  give  money  for  its  support.  Once,  indeed, 
he  was  taken  by  surprise  :  the  other  directors  asked 
as  a  great  favour  to  have  his  portrait  for  the  home. 
And  if  you  were  going  there,  and  asking  the  child- 
ren whose  portrait  it  was,  they  would  answer,  ''  It 
is  the  portrait  of  our  papa." 


12  The  Gentle  Heart. 

One  year,  some  failure  in  bank  or  railway  made 
him  much  poorer,  and  he  could  not  give  the  twenty 
pounds  which  he  had  given  to  the  home  each  year. 
He  might  have  said  quite  honestly,  "  I  am  sorry, 
but  I  can't  afford  to  give  my  twenty  pounds  this 
year."  But  the  gentle  heart  had  something  more 
in  it  than  honesty.  That  very  year  a  new  flower 
had  been  brought  to  London  from  Japan,  and  each 
plant  of  it  cost  a  pound.  The  orphans'  papa  sent 
to  London  for  a  plant,  took  it  into  his  greenhouse, 
cut  it  into  twenty  bits,  and  struck  a  new  plant  out 
of  each.  Then  he  sold  his  twenty  plants  at  one 
pound  each.  And  so,  that  year  too,  there  was  joy 
in  this  Gentle  Heart  that  he  was  still  able  to  pay 
his  twenty  pounds  to  help  to  bless  little  orphan 
children. 

VI. 

Then  I  saw  a  vision  of  a  rich  man's  son.  In 
the  city  of  Glasgow  once  lived  a  worthy  merchant, 
whose  children  I  knew.  As  God  had  blessed  him 
in  his  buying  and  selling,  he  became  a  rich  man. 
And  having  a  great  love  for  country  life,  he  took 
his  riches  and  bought  some  fields  on  which  he  had 
played  and  gathered  flowers  when  a  child,  and  also 
the  mansion  in  which  the  old  laird  of  the  place 
was  wont   to  live.     There  was  just  one  thing  he 


The  Gentle  Heart.  13 

forgot  to  do  ;  he  forgot  to  make  his  will,  and  say  to 
whom  the  mansion  and  fields  should  go  when  he 
died.  So  by-and-by,  when  he  died,  no  will  could 
be  found.  Now  he  left  behind  him  his  wife,  four 
daughters,  and  an  only  son.  But  as  no  will  had 
been  made,  the  mansion,  and  the  fields,  and  a 
great  part  of  all  his  riches,  came  to  this  only  son. 
He  was  in  London  when  the  news  came  that  his 
father  had  died,  and  that  he  was  now  a  rich  man. 
Just  at  that  moment  money  would  have  been  very 
useful  to  him,  for  he  was  a  young  merchant  begin- 
ning hfe,  and  no  one  would  have  blamed  him  if  he 
had  said,  "  The  money  is  welcome,  and  with  it  I 
shall  push  my  new  business  on."  But  God  had 
given  him  a  Gentle  Heart.  He  left  London  as 
soon  after  he  got  the  news  as  he  could  get  a  train. 
And,  although  it  was  late  in  the  day  when  he  ar- 
rived at  his  native  city,  the  first  thing  he  did  was 
to  go  to  the  house  of  a  friend  who  writes  out 
wills.  And  that  friend,  at  his  request,  wrote  out 
a  will  by  which  the  mansion  and  the  fields  were 
made  over  to  his  mother  all  her  days — and  all  the 
rest,  both  land  and  money,  which  his  father  had 
left,  was  divided,  share-and-share  alike_,  between 
her,  his  sisters,  and  himself.  And  when  that  was 
all  fixed,  he  went   to   his   home  and  buried  his 


14  TJie  Gentle  Heart. 

father.  Somebody  said  to  him  afterwards,  ''But 
why  did  you  go  that  very  night  and  have  the  will 
made  out?"  He  said,  "I  that  night  saw  that  it 
was  my  duty  to  do  it.  If  I  had  left  it  till  next 
day,  my  duty  might  not  have  seemed  so  clear." 
That  is  the  way  of  the  Gentle  Heart. 

VII. 

One  vision  of  a  Gentle  Heart  came  to  me  out 
of  the  years  when  I  was  at  school.  Among  my 
class-fellows  was  a  Jewish  boy.  His  real  name 
was  John,  but  some  of  the  bigger  boys  had  given 
him  the  name  of  Isaac,  and  by  that  name  he  was 
known.  He  was  a  shy,  timid-looking  boy,  tall  and 
slender,  with  a  little  stoop.  He  was  very  clever  at 
making  musical  toys.  He  used  to  bring  pan-pipes 
and  singing  reeds  and  wood  whistles  to  the  school. 
Sometimes  he  brought  a  little  flute,  and  in  play- 
hours,  when  the  bigger  scholars  were  at  their 
games,  he  would  stand  leaning  against  the  wall, 
with  a  crowd  of  little  fellows  around  him,  whom  he 
taught  to  play  on  his  simple  reeds  and  whistles, 
or  to  whom  he  played  on  his  little  flute. 

I  sat  beside  him  at  school,  and  got  to  know  him 
well ;  and  I  never  knew  him  to  tell  a  lie,  or  do  a 
base,  or  mean,  or   cruel   thing.     And   I  do  not 


The  Gentle  Heart.  15 

think  as  much  could  be  said  of  any  other  boy 
amongst  us  all  at  that  school  during  the  years  when 
he  was  there.  He  helped  the  backward  boys  with 
their  lessons.  I  have  seen  him  oftener  than  once 
sharing  his  lunch  with  a  school-fellow  that  had 
none;  and  although  he  had  no  quarrels  of  his  own, 
he  took  up  the  quarrels  of  the  little  boys  when  the 
bullies  were  ill-treating  them.  One  day  he  saw  a 
big  lad  of  fifteen  beating  a  little  fellow  of  eleven. 
*'  Now,  Tom,"  he  called  out,  "let  that  little  fellow 
alone."  "  You  mind  your  Jews'  harps  and  whis- 
tles/' said  the  bully.  Isaac  made  no  reply,  but 
went  right  up  to  the  hulking  fellow,  seized  the 
wrist  of  the  hand  which  had  hold  of  the  little  boy, 
gave  it  a  sudden  twist  and  pinch,  which  loosened 
the  hand-grip  in  a  moment,  and  let  the  little  boy 
free.  It  was  done  so  quickly  and  neatly,  that  all 
the  boys  standing  around  burst  into  laughter  at  the 
bully.  From  that  time  the  bully  was  Isaac's  enemy 
and  every  evil  trick  that  could  be  done  against  the 
Jew  lad  he  did,  and  every  spiteful  word  that  could 
be  spoken  he  spoke. 

But  it  happened  one  afternoon,  when  school  was 
over,  that  Isaac  was  standing  at  his  father's  door, 
and  he  saw  a  great  crowd  turning  into  the  street. 
Boys  and  men  were  storming  up,  and  there,  in 


1 6  TJie  Gentle  Heart. 

front  of  them,  running  as  if  for  life,  and  white  with 
terror  and  fatigue,  was  the  bully.  He  had  been  in 
some  boy's  prank  or  other,  and  was  being  chased 
by  those  who  wished  to  punish  him.  Isaac  saw  at 
a  glance  how  matters  stood,  and,  standing  back 
within  the  door  and  holding  it  open,  he  said, 
"  Come  in  here,  Tom  ;  I'll  let  you  out  another 
way."  And  he  let  him  out  into  another  street. 
Isaac  saved  his  bitterest  enemy,  and  Tom  escaped. 
It  was  Tom  who  told  us  all  this.  Isaac  never  re- 
ferred to  it.  But  we  all  noticed  that  Tom  said  as 
much  good  of  the  Jew  boy  afterwards  as  he  had 
said  evil  before. 

VIII. 

But  while  I  was  thinking  of  these  visions,  as 
they  came  one  by  one,  I  found  that  they  began  to 
come  two  and  three  together,  and  at  last  in  a 
crowd.  And  it  is  only  little  bits  of  what  I  saw 
after  that  I  can  now  tell. 

I  saw  a  brave  man  plunging  into  a  river  one 
dark  night,  and  saving  a  woman  who  had  stumbled 
in  ;  and  when  the  friends  sought  him  in  the  crowd, 
to  thank  him,  he  was  not  to  be  found.  The  brave 
man  wanted  no  thanks.  His  reward  was  that  he 
had  saved  a  human  life. 

I  saw  a  gracious  man  going  into  a  bank  one  day. 


The  Gentle  Heart.  17 


and  entering  a  large  sum  of  money  to  the  credit  of 
a  widow,  w^ho  had  lost  husband  and  means  the  day 
before. 

I  saw  a  wounded  soldier  on  the  field  of  battle 
refusing  the  water  he  was  thirsting  for,  that  it 
might  be  given  to  one  beside  him  who  was  worse 
wounded  and  needed  it  more. 

I  saw  a  tender  lady  passing  from  bed  to  bed  in 
a  hospital,  and  speaking  cheering  words  to  the 
sick  people,  as  she  did  some  gentle  service  to 
each.  And  I  saw  the  thankful  smile  that  came  up 
over  their  wan  faces  as  she  passed. 

I  saw  daughters  refusing  homes  of  their  own,  that 
they  might  wait  beside  their  sick  mothers.  I  saw 
them  lovingly  tending  the  dear  sufferers  as  if  they 
were  queens,  and  counting  it  joy  to  be  able  in  this 
way  to  show  their  love. 

I  saw  a  man  stand  up  before  an  angry  mob,  and 
say  to  them,  "It  is  falsehood  you  are  speaking 
against  my  friend."  And  when  they  cried  against 
him  in  their  anger,  he  defended  his  friend  the 
more. 

I  saw  a  brave  captain  on  the  great  sea,  bringing 
his  ship  close  to  a  burning  vessel  crowded  with 
human  beings,  and  waiting  beside  it — risking  his 
own  ship  in  the  flames — till  the  day  closed,  and 

c 


1 8  The  Gentle  Heai't. 

far  on  through  the  night,  till  at  length  every  soul 
was  saved. 

And  in  each  of  these  visions,  and  in  many  more 
that  I  cannot  tell,  what  I  saw  was  a  gleam  of  the 
Gentle  Heart. 

IX. 

At  last,  however,  all  these  visions  melted  away, 
but  I  saw  that  it  was  into  the  light  of  a  far  greater 
vision. 

I  thought  it  was  night,  and  I  was  with  a  crowd 
of  people  upon  a  great  mountain.  There  were 
mountains  all  round,  mountains  below,  mountains 
above,  a  great  stretch  of  mountains,  and  the  tops, 
reaching  far  up  into  the  sky,  were  covered  with 
snow. 

We  turned  our  face  s  to  the  mountain-tops,  and 
we  saw  coming  out  on  the  peaks  of  the  highest 
just  the  faintest  Httle  flush  of  light.  Then  it  grew 
stronger,  then  red,  then  one  by  one  the  great  snow- 
peaks  kindled  up,  away  up  into  the  sky,  as  if  some 
fire  were  shining  on  the  snow ;  and  indeed  a  fire 
was  shining  on  the  snow.  For  as  we  turned  our 
faces  the  other  way  to  come  down  the  hill,  we  be- 
held the  morning  sun  rising  into  the  sky.  It  was 
the  flame  of  the  rising  sun  which  we  had  seen 
shining  on  the  lighted  peaks. 


The  Gentle  Heart.  19 


Now  that  is  just  what  my  visions  of  the  Gentle 
Heart  have  been, — fires  kindled  by  a  greater  fire  ; 
far-off  gleams  of  the  Gentle  Heart  of  Jesus.  The 
gentleness  I  have  been  telHng  you  about  is  just 
light  from  Him.  He  is  the  sun.  They  were  the 
hill-tops,  great  and  small,  aflame  with  love  like 
His  love.  And  it  was  into  the  light  of  that  largest 
love  my  visions  faded. 

Yes,  His  is  the  heart  from  which  all  hearts  take 
their  gentleness.  It  is  from  His  heart  all  the 
gentleness  of  mothers  and  sisters,  all  the  gentle- 
ness you  have  ever  known  in  father,  or  brother,  or 
companion,  or  nurse,  has  come.  His  is  the  gentlest 
heart  the  world  has  ever  known,  or  ever  can  know. 
It  is  this  heart  which  in  the  Bible  the  loving  God 
offers  to  each  of  us.  This  is  that  new  heart  which 
will  new-make  you,  and  bless  you,  and  bring  you 
at  last  to  glory.  Just  the  heart  of  Jesus,  the 
gentle,  loving,  merciful  heart  of  Him  who  once 
died  for  us,  and  who  still  lives  to  help  and  bless 
us  all. 


SOME  GENTLE  DEEDS. 


SOME   GENTLE   DEEDS. 

IT  is  said  of  the  things  done  by  Jesus,  that  if 
they  should  be  written  every  one,  the  world 
itself  could  not  contain  the  books  they  should  fill. 
It  is  the  same  with  deeds  done  by  those  who  are 
like  Jesus.  They  can  never  all  be  told.  They 
are  being  done  every  day,  every  hour  of  the  day, 
and  in  every  country.  Only  one  here,  another 
there,  is  ever  heard  of.  I  am  going  to  tell  of  two 
or  three  which  I  have  read  about  or  known  my- 
self. 


It  was  a  gentle  deed  which  Rahab  did  hundreds 
of  years  ago  in  Jericho.  She  saved  the  lives  of 
two  servants  of  God.  Rahab  was  a  poor  heathen 
woman.  She  had  neither  Bible  nor  church  to  tell 
her  what  to  do.  No  prophet  had  ever  told  her  of 
God.  She  only  knew  of  Him  by  the  talk  of  tra- 
vellers, and  by  the  rumours  of  the  mighty  works 


24  The  Gentle  Heart. 

He  had  done  for  the  children  of  Israel,  What 
she  knew  of  God,  therefore,  was  a  mere  tiny  spark 
of  light,  which  any  puff  of  wind  might  blow  out. 
But  she  loved  this  light.  She  took  it  for  her 
guide.     And  in  the  way  it  pointed  out  she  walked. 

One  day  God  sent  the  two  servants  I  have 
spoken  of  unto  her  house  for  shelter.  They  had 
come  to  see  the  land ;  and  the  king  of  Jericho 
was  angry,  and  wanted  to  kill  them.  And  he  sent 
to  Rahab,  and  said,  ''  Give  these  men  up  to  me 
that  I  may  kill  them,  for  they  are  come  to  spy  out 
our  land."  But  Rahab  knew,  by  the  light  which 
God  had  kindled  in  her  soul,  that  they  were  sent 
by  God.  And  she  said  to  herself,  "  I  will  obey 
God  rather  than  the  king  of  Jericho."  So  she  hid 
the  men  in  the  roof  of  her  house  among  stalks  of 
flax  which  were  heaped  up  there.  Then,  when 
night  fell,  she  let  them  down  by  a  cord  from  a 
window  that  looked  over  the  wall  of  the  city. 
"  Flee  for  your  lives,"  she  said,  "  flee  to  the  moun- 
tains, and  remain  there  three  days,  and  you  shall 
be  safe."  So  the  men  fled,  as  she  told  them,  up 
to  the  mountains,  and,  hiding  there  three  days, 
they  escaped. 

It  was  God  who  gave  her  this  chance  of  serving 
Him  by  doing  this  good  deed.     And  He  also  gave 


Some  Gentle  Deeds.  25 

her  the  wisdom  and  the  heart  to  do  it  well.  That 
which  she  could  do,  she  did.  That  is  her  praise 
to  this  day. 

II. 
There  is  still  living,  in  an  English  village,  a 
venerable  man,  who  has  spent  his  days  in  preach- 
ing the  gospel  and  doing  other  Christian  works. 
When  he  came  first  to  this  village,  he  found  every 
summer,  about  the  same  time,  that  many  of  the 
people  sickened,  and  some  died.  Of  those  who 
died,  the  greatest  number  were  children.  It  went 
to  his  heart  to  see  the  grief  which  these  deaths 
caused, — mothers  crying  for  the  children,  and 
children  for  the  mothers,  who  had  died,  At  last 
God  put  the  thought  into  his  mind,  that  there  was 
some  one  evil  thing  which  brought  the  sickness 
and  the  deaths.  And,  looking  into  all  things  to 
find  this  out,  he  saw  that  in  the  hot  months  of 
summer  the  people  had  no  water  to  drink  except 
what  lay  foul  and  bad  in  the  ditches  by  the  road- 
side. He  said  to  himself,  "  The  people  are  dying 
for  want  of  pure  water."  Now  over  against  that 
village  there  is  a  mountain,  and  in  the  sides  of 
this  mountain,  far  up,  are  springs  and  streams  of 
the  purest  water.  The  minister  got  workmen  and 
went  up  to  these  streams.     And  across  the  bed  of 


26  The  Gentle  Heart. 


the  largest  stream  he  caused  a  strong  wall  to  be 
built,  and  in  this  way  made  a  deep  lake  behind. 
Then  from  this  lake  he  caused  pipes  to  be  laid 
all  the  way  to  the  streets  of  the  village.  And  the 
villagers  had  wholesome  water  to  drink.  And  they 
ceased  to  sicken  and  die  as  they  had  done. 

That  was  a  gentle  and  Christian  deed.  He 
brought  health  to  his  people,  and  a  happier  life 
into  their  homes. 

III. 

One  of  the  best  and  kindest  servants  of  God  I 
have  ever  known  was  my  beloved  friend  Margaret. 
Her  life  has  been  one  long  outflow  of  gentle  deeds. 
And  she  has  done  deeds  which  were  brave  as  well 
as  good,  which  needed  courage  and  strength  as 
well  as  kindness  to  do.  It  is  one  of  these— one 
out  of  many — I  am  about  to  tell. 

In  the  city  where  her  home  was,  is  a  district 
which  is  called  "  the  woods."  And  in  the  heart  of 
that  district  was  an  evil  house,  dark  and  dismal  to 
look  at,  in  which  thieves  and  drunkards  and  other 
evil  people  lived,  and  which  the  neighbours  in  the 
district  had  named  ''  the  den." 

One  winter's  day,  a  simple  country  girl,  not  yet 
eighteen,  in  search  of  work,  knocked  at  the  door 
of  this  house.     Her  mother  and  she  had  seen  in 


Some  Gentle  Deeds.  27 


the  newspaper  that  work  was  to  be  had  in  this 
house.  And  at  the  door,  when  it  was  opened,  she 
asked  for  work.  "Yes!"  said  the  master  of  the 
house ;  "  if  you  will  stay  here  you  shall  have  work." 
But  it  was  a  very  wicked  man  who  said  this,  and 
it  was  very  wicked  work  he  intended  her  to  do. 
He  was  like  the  wolf  who  met  little  Red  Riding 
Hood  ;  and  this  was  a  girl  like  Red  Riding  Hood 
herself. 

Now  on  that  same  day  it  came  to  the  ears  of  my 
friend  Margaret  that  this  guileless  country  girl  had 
been  entrapped  into  the  den.  She  knew  the  wicked- 
ness of  the  evil  man  who  was  its  master,  and  of  the 
thieves  and  vile  people  who  lived  with  him  in  his 
house.  She  knew  also  that  this  poor  girl  would 
never  more  get  back  to  her  home  unless  she  could 
be  got  out  of  the  den  at  once. 

It  was  winter  weather,  as  I  have  said.  The  air 
was  thick  with  fog,  the  streets  deep  in  slush.  But 
Margaret,  having  first  put  herself  in  God's  hand  by 
prayer,  set  out  and  knocked  at  the  door  of  the  den. 
"  Could  she  see  the  girl  who  had  come  up  from  the 
country  ?"  ''  There  was  no  such  person  there,"  she 
was  told.  ''Could  she  see  the  master?"  "He 
had  gone  from  home."  But  these  were  lies  which 
she  had  been  told.     She  went  to  the  police  office, 


28  The  Gentle  Heart. 


to  magistrates,  to  ministers,  to  kind-hearted  citizens. 
No  one  seemed  able  to  help  her.  Two  days  in  the 
bitter  winter  weather  she  toiled,  going  from  street 
to  street,  from  door  to  door,  before  she  found  the 
helper  who  cared  to  help.  But  this  helper  at  last 
she  found.  And  before  the  third  day  closed,  she 
had  rescued  the  innocent  country  girl  from  the 
den  of  evil ;  had  got  work  for  her  which  she  could 
do  at  her  mother's  side  ;  and  was  with  her  in  the 
late  train  on  the  way  back  to  the  village  home, 
which,  but  for  Margaret,  she  never  would  have 
seen  again. 

TV. 

The  other  day  a  poor  man  was  brought — crushed 
by  machinery — into  a  Manchester  hospital.  To 
save  his  life  his  leg  had  to  be  taken  off.  But 
when  this  was  done,  the  blood  rushed  out  so 
quickly  that  there  was  almost  no  life  left  in  him. 
And  the  doctors  said  he  had  not  strength  to  get 
better.  There  was  but  one  chance  for  him.  If 
new  blood  could  be  poured  into  his  body  he  might 
still  live.  One  of  the  students  there  said,  "  Let 
blood  be  taken  from  me."  And  blood  was  taken 
from  him  and  made  to  pass  into  the  body  of  the 
dying  man.  And  the  man  recovered  his  strength 
and  he  lived.     It  was  a  great  gift  which  this  student 


Some  Gentle  Deeds.  29 


made  to  the  poor  stranger.  It  was  a  gift  of  life. 
He  had  nobleness  and  strength  to  do  this  very 
thing.  It  was,  in  the  best  sense,  a  gentle  deed. 
That  is  his  praise  for  evermore  for  this  deed,  what- 
ever else  his  life  may  bring  forth. 

V. 

A  young  mason,  many  years  ago,  had  his  hand 
crushed  by  a  stone,  and  went  to  the  Glasgow 
Infirmary  to  have  it  dressed.  A  student,  unlike 
the  one  I  told  you  of, — an  ungentle  student, — tore 
off  the  bandages  hastily.  That  is  a  great  cruelty 
when  the  hand  is  sore  with  open  wounds.  The 
pain  was  worse  than  having  the  hand  crushed  at 
first.  And  though  the  young  lad  kept  down  his 
crying  when  he  was  with  the  doctor,  he  no  sooner 
got  out  than  he  turned  into  a  court  and  sat  on 
some  steps  inside  where  he  could  be  out  of  sight,  ■ 
and  burst  into  sobs.  But  on  that  stair  dwelt  a 
very  gentle  lady.  She  heard  the  sobbing,  and 
came  down  to  see  the  sufferer.  Then  she  brought 
him  into  her  house,  spoke  kindly  to  him, — like  a 
mother, — made  some  tea  for  him,  and  told  him  to 
come  to  her  every  day  before  he  went  to  have  his 
hand  dressed.  And  day  by  day  this  mother-hearted 
lady  soaked  the  bandages  in  warm  water,  and  made 


30  The  Gentle  Heart. 

them  easy  to  come  off.  And  this  she  did  to  this 
perfect  stranger  till  the  hand  was  well.  Perhaps  it 
does  not  seem  a  very  great  thing  to  do,  but  it  was 
a  very  kind  thing.  And  it  was  all  she  was  able 
to  do.  She  did  what  she  could.  And  the  young 
mason  never  forgot  her  kindness.  He  became  a 
life-long  friend  to  her.  And  when  she  was  old  and 
lonely  he  often  visited  her,  and  his  visits  cheered 
her  till  she  died. 

VI. 

I  knew  another  doer  of  gende  deeds,  the  land- 
lady of  a  country  inn.  She  was  very  simple.  Al- 
though she  was  the  mother  of  grown-up  sons  and 
daughters,  it  was  like  listening  to  a  baby  to  hear 
her  speak.  Almost  the  only  words  which  passed 
her  lips  were,  "  Ay,  ay,"  and  "  No,  no."  But  she 
had  a  kind  and  motherly  heart.  Out  of  that  came 
all  the  gentle  deeds  she  did.  One  of  these  I  will 
tell. 

On  the  other  side  of  the  street  from  her  inn 
lived  a  poor  girl,  a  weaver,  who  had  neither  father 
nor  mother,  nor  friend  nor  relative  in  the  wide 
world.  This  girl  was  laid  down  by  fever,  and  had 
a  long  and  weary  illness  after.  At  first  the  neigh- 
bours were  very  kind.  They  lit  her  fire,  tidied  up 
her  room,  prepared  her  food,  and  made  her  bed. 


SoDie  Gentle  Deeds.  31 

But  weeks  and  months  passed,  and  Ann  was  no 
better.  And  by  and  by  the  neighbours  got  weary 
of  this  well-doing.  First  one,  then  another,  at  last 
all  except  one  forgot  to  visit  poor  Ann,  or  even  to 
ask  how  she  was  getting  on.  This  unforgetting 
one  was  the  kind  mistress  of  the  little  inn.  Every 
day,  as  the  clock  struck  four,  this  simple  Christian 
woman  might  be  seen  coming  out  of  her  door  with 
a  small  covered  tray.  Wet  or  dry,  snow  or  sun- 
shine, it  was  all  the  same.  At  the  exact  hour  the 
lonesome  Ann  heard  the  welcome  footstep  on  the 
stair,  saw  the  latch  lifted,  and  the  gentle  neighbour 
coming  in  with  a  pleasant  smile  on  her  face,  and  a 
large  cup  of  hot  tea  and  a  buttered  roll  in  her  hand. 
She  would  have  died  but  for  this  that  her  neigh- 
bour did.  Many  a  day  her  only  food  was  the  tea 
and  roll.  And  it  was  not  always  easy  for  this  kind 
heart  to  do  what  she  did.  It  was  not  easy  to  leave 
her  house,  which  was  often  crowded  with  country 
people.  But  always  she  fulfilled  her  task  of  mercy. 
She  did  it  cheerfully.  She  did  it  till  Ann  was  able 
to  come  and  thank  her.  That  was  her  praise  in 
God's  sight. 

VII. 

Yet  one  other  gentle  deed  comes  into  my  memory 
out  of  a  story  of  school  life.     It  was  a  school  of 


The  Gentle  Heart. 


black  children  in  Jamaica.  A  friend  of  my  own 
was  master.  He  had  made  a  law  that  every  lie 
told  in  the  school  should  be  punished  by  seven 
strokes  on  the  palm  with  a  strap.  One  day  Lottie 
Paul  told  a  lie,  and  was  called  up  to  receive  the 
seven  strokes.  Lottie  was  a  poor  little  thing,  and 
pain  was  terrible  to  her.  But  the  master  must 
enforce  his  law.  Untruth  is  a  very  evil  thing  in  a 
school,  or  in  a  child's  life.  So  Lottie  had  to  hold 
out  her  hand  and  receive  the  seven  strokes.  But 
her  cry  of  pain  when  she  had  received  the  first 
went  to  the  master's  heart.  .He  could  not  go  on 
with  her  punishment.  He  could  not  pass  by  her 
sin.  And  this  is  what  he  did.  He  looked  to  the 
forms  on  which  the  boys  were  seated,  and  asked, 
"  Is  there  any  boy  will  bear  the  rest  of  Lottie's 
punishment  ?"  And  as  soon  as  the  words  were  out 
of  his  lips,  up  started  a  bright  little  fellow  called 
Jim,  and  said,  "  Please,  sir,  I  will ! "  And  he  step- 
ped from  his  seat,  stepped  up  to  the  desk,  and 
received,  without  a  cry,  the  six  remaining  strokes. 

What  moved  this  brave  boy  to  bear  Lottie's 
punishment?  It  was  the  gentle  heart.  And  it 
was  the  vision  of  a  heart  gentler  still,  but  gentle 
with  the  same  kind  of  gentleness  wdiich  filled  the 
master's  eyes  with  tears  that  day,  and  made  him 


Some  Gentle  Deeds.  33 

close  his  books,  and  bring  his  scholars  round  about 
his  desk,  and  tell  them  of  the  Gentle  One,  who 
long  ago  bore  the  punishment  of  us  all. 

It  is  pleasant  to  tell  of  gentle  deeds.  It  is  far 
more  pleasant  to  be  able  to  do  them.  But  it 
is  delightful  to  know  that  Christ  the  Lord  is  help- 
ing people  every  day  to  do  them.  And  every  day 
He  is  sending  chances  of  doing  them  to  our  very 
doors.  And  the  gentle  deeds  He  gives  us  the 
chance  of  doing  are  not  high  and  difficult  things, 
which  only  great  people  and  strong  people  can  do, 
but  humble,  homely,  little  things  which  boys  and 
girls,  and  even  little  children  can  do. 


A  NEIGHBOUR. 


A  NEIGHBOUR. 

IN  the  days  of  the  great  King  Agathos  many 
wonderful  things  took  place.  Young  men  saw 
visions,  and  old  men  dreamed  dreams.  Many  that 
were  poor  became  rich ;  many  that  were  rude  be- 
came gentle ;  and  towns  and  villages  that  were 
almost  deserted  and  in  ruins  were  rebuilt  and  filled 
with  happy  crowds. 

Just  on  the  outskirts  of  this  great  King's  king- 
dom, in  a  hollow  among  lofty  hills,  lay  one  of 
those  ruined  villages.  Everything  in  it  had  a 
broken-down  and  decaying  look.  The  houses 
were  old  and  mean  and  bare ;  grass  grew  upon 
the  streets ;  and  the  inhabitants  were  ignorant 
and  sad  and  poor. 

One  morning,  in  early  spring,  a  stranger  entered 
this  village.  It  was  noticed  that  he  walked  from 
one  end  of  the  main  street  to  the  other,  looking 
to  this  side  and  to  that,  at  the  houses  :  but  more 


38  The  Gentle  Heart. 

eagerly  still  into  the  faces  of  the  people  who 
were  passing  by. 

The  labourers  began  to  come  out  from  their 
homes  to  go  into  the  fields  :  the  stranger  examined 
every  face  as  it  passed.  A  little  while  after,  the 
young  women  came  out  to  the  wells  for  water : 
the  stranger  went  up  to  these  and  questioned 
them,  one  by  one.  By-and-by,  he  turned  aside 
to  a  blind  old  man,  who  sat  at  his  door  to  enjoy 
the  heat  of  the  morning  sun,  and  he  put  many 
questions  to  him.  But  neither  the  old  man  nor 
the  young  women  could  give  him  the  information 
he  wished.  A  look  of  distress  and  disappoint- 
ment came  into  his  face.  The  villagers  saw 
him  turning  away  into  a  back  street  that  had  long 
since  been  deserted.  Then  they  noticed  that  he 
sat  down  on  the  stones  of  an  old  wall,  with  his 
face  towards  a  roofless  cottage,  which  had  neither 
window,  nor  fireplace,  nor  door. 

This  was  the  cottage  in  which  the  stranger  was 
born,  and  in  which  he  had  spent  his  early  years. 
As  he  sat  gazing  on  its  ruins,  the  old  forms  he 
had  known  so  well  in  his  boyhood  seemed  to 
come  back  again.  He  saw  his  father  working 
among  the  flower-beds  in  the  garden ;  and  his 
mother,  now  knitting  and  now  cooking,  beside  the 


A   NcigJihoiir.  39 


kitchen-fire.  The  very  laughter  of  his  brother 
and  sisters,  as  he  had  so  often  heard  it  long  ago, 
seemed  to  come  back  again  and  fill  his  ears  like 
a  song.  And  there  came  back  also  the  memory 
of  a  day  when  that  laughter  was  stilled  ;  and 
along  with  that,  the  form  of  a  beautiful  sister,  who 
on  that  day  was  carried  out  to  her  grave.  Tears 
began  to  trickle  down  his  cheeks. 

And  then,   one   of  the  strange  things   I   men- 
tioned at  the  outset  happened.     Behind  the  cottage 
rose  up  the  great  sides  of  the  hills  among  which 
the   village   was  nestled.       Far   up    the    huts   of 
shepherds  could  be  seen  like  little  dots  scattered 
here  and  there  ;  and  on  the  green  pastures,  flocks 
of  sheep.     As  the  stranger  was  gazing  across  the 
roofless  and  broken  walls  of  his  early  home,  his 
ear  caught  little  snatches  of  a  song  which  some 
one  was  singing  among  the  hills  behind.     Then  he 
beheld   the    singer — a   little  girl— stepping    down 
as   if  she  were  coming  from  the  shepherds'  huts. 
Her  feet  were  bare,   but  she  stepped  downwards 
as  if  she  had  wings.     Her  yellow  hair  was  blown 
out  behind  her  with  the  wind.     She  was  coming 
directly  to  the  stranger,  and  almost  before  he  knew, 
she  was  at  his  side,  and  singing  the  song  he  had 
heard — 


40  The  Gentle  Heart. 

"  Friend  and  brother  wouldst  thou  find? 
Hearts  of  love  around  thee  bind  ? 
Be  thyself  a  heart  of  home  ; 
To  gentle  heart,  hearts  gentle  come." 

Then  she  stopped  singing,  and  fixing  her  eyes 
earnestly  on  him,  said,  "  You  are  in  pain,  my 
brother?"  And  although  she  was  but  a  little 
child,  and  one  he  did  not  remember  to  have  seen 
before,  the  stranger  could  not  help  opening  his 
heart  to  her. 

"  I  have  come  from  the  most  distant  shores  of 
our  King's  country  to  find  my  brother  and  sisters, 
and  they  are  not  here.  When  I  left  this  village  I 
was  poor.  I  am  rich  now,  and  would  share  my 
riches  with  them,  if  I  could  find  them." 

While  the  stranger  was  speaking  the  little  girl 
seemed  to  grow  more  and  more  beautiful.  Her 
eyes  shone  like  bits  of  the  blue  of  the  sky,  and 
sent  their  glance  into  his  very  soul.  As  the  morn- 
ing sunlight  fell  on  her  hair  it  seemed  like  a  crown 
of  gold  around  her  head.  And  then,  as  she  stood 
before  him  there,  in  her  exceeding  beauty,  it 
flashed  upon  him  that  somewhere  or  other  in 
other  years,  he  must  have  seen  that  face.  And 
then,  in  a  moment  more,  he  knew  that  this  was 
the   very   face    of  the  dear  sister  who  had   died. 


A  Neighbour.  41 


Then  she  said,   "Come   with  me,   brother;  your 
brother  and  sisters  are  found." 

She  took  him  by  the  hand  and  led  him  back  into 
the  main  street  of  the  village,  and  said — "  Do  you 
see  that  blind  old  man  whom  you  questioned? 
That  is  your  father." 

"But  my  father  is  dead  these  many  years." 

Without  stopping  to  answer  him,  the  beautiful 
child  went  on — do  you  see  those  young  women 
you  spoke  to  coming  from  the  wells  with  water  ? 
They  are  your  sisters." 

"  But  my  sisters  must  be  old  and  grey-headed 
now." 

And  once  more,  without  replying  to  him,  the 
child  said — "  Do  you  see  those  labourers  in  the 
fields,  whose  faces  you  looked  into  so  eagerly  ? 
They  are  your  brothers." 

"But  I  had  only  one  brother." 

While  he  was  saying  this  the  children  began  to 
go  past  to  school. 

"  And  there,"  exclaimed  his  young  companion, 
pointing  to  them,  "are  your  children." 

The  stranger  was  perplexed.  Everything  about 
him  seemed  to  swim  in  the  morning  light.  The 
children,  the  young  women,  the  labourers,  and 
the  blind  old  man  appeared  as  if  they  were  drawn 


42  TJie  Gentle  Heart. 

up  into  the  light.  And  into  the  same  light  the 
beautiful  form  of  his  child  sister  also  passed, 
smiling  towards  her  brother  with  a  tender  grace, 
and  singing  her  gentle  song.  And  then  everything 
disappeared. 

When  he  came  to  himself  he  was  still  sitting 
on  the  stones  of  the  broken  wall.  The  roofless 
cottage  was  on  the  other  side  of  the  way,  but  the 
little  girl  was  gone.  And  from  where  he  sat  he 
could  see  neither  children  nor  grown-up  people  of 
the  village. 

He  was  never  quite  certain  about  what  had 
taken  place.  Sometimes  he  fancied  he  had  fallen 
asleep,  and  had  dreamed  a  happy  dream.  Some- 
times it  seemed  as  if  he  had  seen  a  vision,  and  as 
as  if  the  beautiful  child  stepping  down  the  hillside 
with  her  song  and  her  words  of  teaching  had  been 
real.  But  nobody  else  had  seen  her ;  and  the 
shepherds  in  the  huts  did  not  know  of  such  a  child. 
But  whether  what  he  saw  and  heard  was  real,  or 
only  a  dream,  it  was  the  turning  point  of  life  to 
this  rich  stranger. 

The  song  of  the  fair-haired  child  took  possession 
of  his  heart,  and  by  means  of  it  God  changed  his 
heart,  and  made  it  gentle  and  neighbourly ;  and 
the  light  of  the  neighbourly  heart  came  into  his 


A   Neighbour.  43 


eyes,  and  he  saw  in  the  ruined  village  a  new  world 
and  new  duties  there  for  himself.  Long  afterwards 
he  used  to  tell  that  he  saw  that  day  what  John  had 
seen  in  the  Isle  of  Patmos — "  a  new  heaven  and  a 
new  earth."  He  knelt  beside  the  ruined  cottage 
and  Hfted  up  his  heart  to  God,  and  said,  "  O  my 
Father,  let  the  heart  that  was  in  Thy  Son  Jesus  be 
also  in  me !  All  that  I  have  is  Thine ;  from  Thee 
it  came,  to  Thee  it  shall  return.  Help  me  to 
fulfil  Thy  will." 

He  rose  up  a  new  man.  He  said  to  himself,  "  I 
will  abide  in  this  village,  and  build  up  its  ruined 
walls,  and  make  the  people  of  it  the  sharers  of  my 
wealth." 

So  he  abode  in  the  village  ;  and  he  became  a 
neighbour  to  old  and  young.  The  inhabitants 
became  his  children,  and  his  brothers  and  his 
sisters,  and  his  parents.  And  light  arose  in  their 
dwellings,  and  prosperity  came  back  into  their 
streets,  and  songs  to  their  lips.  The  rich  man  w^as 
happy,  and  the  poor  were  blessed ;  and  in  his  old 
age,  when  young  people  were  setting  out  in  life, 
and  came  up  to  him  for  his  blessing,  he  used  to 
repeat  to  them  the  song  which  the  fair-haired  child 
of  his  vision  had  sung  to  him,  and  call  it  "  the 
secret  of  a  happy  life.'^ 


44  The  Gentle  Heart. 

Long  years  have  passed  since  those  things  took 
place.  The  ruined  village  is  now  a  large  and 
prosperous  city  ;  but  in  the  centre  of  it  stands  to 
this  day  a  granite  cross  with  the  portrait  of  a 
beautiful  child  cut  on  the  stem,  and  underneath, 
the  words  of  the  song — 

"  Friend  and  brother  wouldst  thou  find  ? 
Hearts  of  love  around  thee  bind  ? 
Be  thyself  a  heart  of  home  ; 
To  gentle  heart,  hearts  gentle  come." 

That  is  the  monument  of  the  rich  stranger  who 
shared  his  riches  with  the  people  of  the  ruined 
village.  His  name  is  unknown.  But  in  the  his- 
tories of  the  city  you  will  find  that  the  founder 
of  its  prosperity  is  described  as  "  the  man  with 
the  neighbourly  heart." 


ON  DOIAG    WHAT    WE    CAN. 


ON    DOING   WHAT   WE   CAN. 


NOBODY  is  Wle  in  the  kingdom  of  our  Lord. 
Even  the  babes  and  sucklings  have  some- 
thing to  do.  But  so  just  is  the  King  that  He  will 
not  have  any  of  His  servants  do  more  than  they 
can.     He  expects  us  to  do  only  what  we  can. 

''  What  we  can."  That  is  His  measure  for  all 
work  done  to  Him.  What  we  have  strength  for, 
what  we  have  health  for,  what  we  have  cleverness 
for,  what  we  have  time  for,  what  we  have  means 
for:  that  and  nothing  more.  He  will  have  us  work 
up  to  that,  but  no  higher. 

He  must  have  been  thinking  of  little  peiDple  and 
children  when  He  made  this  the  measure  of  work. 
Almost  it  is  as  if  He  had  said,  "  I  will  not  make 
My  service  hard  to  any  one,  but  least  of  all  to  the 
little  ones  of  My  kingdom." 


48  The  Gentle  Heart, 

I. 

It  was  this  which  pleased  Him  so  wxll  in  the 
service  which  Mary  of  Bethany  did  :  she  did  what 
she  could.  She  greatly  loved  the  Lord.  He  had 
often  spoken  to  her  about  His  Father.  He  had 
raised  her  brother  Lazarus  from  the  dead.  And 
she  wanted  to  show  her  love. 

She  took  this  way  of  showing  it.  All  the  money 
she  could  spare  she  spent  on  a  box  of  sweet-scented 
oil.  And  one  Sabbath  evening — the  last  Sabbath 
before  His  death — the  Lord  was  in  Bethany  and  at 
supper  in  the  house  of  Simon,  Mary  came  in  with 
her  box.  And  going  near  to  Jesus,  she  did  to  Him 
what  was  only  done  to  kings  and  great  people — 
she  poured  the  sweet-scented  oil  upon  His  head 
and  over  His  feet.  And  then,  in  her  great  love, 
she  wiped  His  feet  wdth  her  hair. 

It  was  not  much  to  do.  To  look  at,  it  was  not 
so  much  as  if  she  had  built  a  church,  or  a  school, 
or  a  hospital.  It  was  not  even  so  much,  Judas 
said  angrily,  as  if  she  had  sold  the  ointment  and 
given  the  money  to  the  poor.  It  was  only  pouring 
some  sweet  perfume  on  the  head  and  feet  of  the 
Saviour  she  loved.  But  just  this  was  the  thing  she 
could  best  do  ;  and  what  she  could  she  did.  Of 
all  His  disciples  then  living,  only  into  the  heart  ot 


On  Doing  what  ive  Can.  49 

this  one  had  come  the  thought  to  do  this  thing. 
She  had  love  so  great  for  Jesus,  and  He  had 
become  so  truly  her  King,  that  it  seemed  to  her  a 
blessed  work  to  buy  the  oil  and  pour  it  upon  His 
head.  She  would  have  done  more  if  she  could ; 
but  this  was  in  her  heart  to  do,  and  it  was  done. 
The  Lord  did  not  despise  it,  or  think  it  a  little 
thing.  When  Judas  and  others  were  blaming  her, 
He  said,  "She  hath  wrought  a  good  work  upon 
Me  .  .  .  She  hath  done  what  she  could."  He 
praised  her.  And  then,  in  His  kindness,  and 
praising  her  still  more.  He  said,  "  that  what  she 
had  done  would  be  talked  of  wherever  His  Gospel 
should  be  preached.'^  And  so  it  has  fallen  out. 
That  evening  the  fragrance  of  her  ointment  filled 
the  house  where  they  were  sitting ;  and  its  frag- 
rance, in  a  still  better  way — the  good  influence 
that  was  in  it— has  filled  the  house  of  the  Lord 
ever  since. 

II. 
When  years  had  gone  past,  and  Jesus  was  gone 
back  to  heaven,  many  other  disciples  showed  their 
love  to  Him  by  doing  what  they  could.  Some 
sold  their  possessions,  and  gave  the  money  they 
got  for  them  to  the  poor.  Some  went  about  the 
world  preaching  Jesus.     Some  opened  their  houses 

E 


50  The  Gentle  Heart. 

to  receive  the  preachers.  Some  spent  long  hours  in 
prayer,  asking  God  to  bless  the  preaching.  Some, 
more  noble  than  others,  searched  the  Bible  besides, 
to  know  what  God  would  have  them  to  do. — 
Among  these  was  Dorcas  of  Joppa. 

Joppa  was  a  seaport  town,  and  full  of  sailors ; 
and  where  sailors  are  there  will  also  be  women  and 
children  who  are  poor.  Often  ships  went  out  from 
the  harbour  that  never  came  back.  They  were 
caught  by  storms  and  sunk  far  out  at  sea,  or 
they  were  driven  shoreward  and  broken  on  the 
rocks.  And  day  after  day  mothers  and  children 
on  the  shore  would  look  with  straining  eyes  to  the 
sea  for  white  sails  which  could  never  more  be  seen. 
And  sometimes,  when  all  hope  had  perished  of 
seeing  these  sails  again,  the  streets  would  be  filled 
with  wailing.  And  sometimes,  it  might  be,  widows 
would  go  past  the  door  where  Dorcas  lived,  wring- 
ing their  hands  in  agony,  because  news  had  come 
to  them,  that  the  fathers  of  their  children  had  been 
swallowed  up  by  the  terrible  sea. 

And  seeing  these  poor  people  by  day,  and  lying 
awake,  perhaps,  sometimes  on  stormy  nights  and 
thinking  of  brave  sailors  perishing,  even  then,  at 
sea,  this  Christian  lady  said  to  herself,  ''  Can  I  do 
anything  to  help  ? "     And  taking  herself  to  task, 


On  Doing  ivJiat  we  Can.  5 1 

she  found  there  was  one  thing  she  could  do. 
She  could  sew.  She  could  make  coats  and 
garments — upper  and  under  clothes.  There  was 
another  thing  she  could  do,  although  she  herself 
might  not  think  of  that.  She  had  a  heart  filled 
with  tenderness  and  pity.  She  could  let  forth  some 
of  that  pity  and  tenderness  on  the  poor  people  in 
their  sorrow.  And  these  two  things  she  did.  She 
drew  the  poor  widows  about  her  by  her  love. 
And  with  her  own  hands  she  made  clothing  for 
them  and  theirs.  To  some  people,  it  might  not 
seem  a  very  great  work.  It  was  only  a  little 
sewing  and  some  human  love  j  only  a  kind  word 
for  sad  hearts  and  clothing  for  the  naked.  But 
that  is  work  which  is  very  dear  to  Christ.  And  it 
was  work  of  this  kind  He  had  given  her  the  power 
to  do.  And  what  she  could,  she  did.  And  of  so 
much  worth  seemed  her  work  in  the  eyes  of  Jesus, 
that  when  she  died  early,  and  the  poor  widows  she 
had  clothed  cried  to  Him,  through  Peter,  to  let 
their  dear  one — their  friend — come  back  to  them, 
He  granted  their  prayer,  and  by  the  hands  of  His 
servant  Peter  raised  her  up  again  to  life. 
III. 
Sometimes  we  can  only  sing  a  psalm,  or  offer  a 
prayer,  or  speak  a  kind  word,  or  give  a  tender  look, 


52  The  Gentle  Heart. 

or  a  warm  grasp  of  the  hand.  It  is  enough  in  the 
eyes  of  the  just  Saviour  that  we  do  things  as  little 
as  these,  if  these  should  be  the  only  things  Ave 
can  do. 

I-  am  reminded,  while  I  speak,  of  two  workers 
for  Christ,  I  once  knew,  who  gained  their  bread  in 
a  cotton  mill,  and  served  Him  in  a  very  simple 
way.  One  of  these,  her  companions  used  to  call 
*'  the  gentle  Mary."  She  was  a  Roman  Catholic. 
She  was  very  tender  about  sick  people,  and  spent 
what  she  could  spare  of  her  evenings,  after  mill 
hours,  in  visiting  them.  She  had  a  way  of  speaking 
to  the  sick  that  did  them  good.  Not  that  she 
was  a  great  speaker.  Often  she  would  only  say 
to  them,  "Jesus  loves  you."  Sometimes  she  just 
pressed  their  hands.  Sometimes  she  bent  over 
them  and  kissed  them.  She  never  went  on  these 
visits  of  kindness  without  taking  something  she 
thought  the  sick  people  would  like.  It  would  be 
a  little  jelly  one  time;  and  a  little  scent-bottle 
next  time ;  and  now  and  again  it  would  be  a 
flower,  or  a  little  wine.  The  door  was  open  for 
Mary  into  many  a  home  where  these  things  were 
to  be  had  for  the  asking.  I  am  happy  to  be  able 
to  add,  that  Mary  was  as  gentle  and  loving  at  her 
own  fireside,  as  in  the  homes  of  the  sick. 


Oil  Doing  what  ive  Can.  53 

It  was  another  kind  of  service  to  which  the 
second  girl  had  given  herself.  One  winter  evening 
she  was  going  home  from  the  factory,  and  in  the 
light  falling  from  a  street  lamp  on  the  pavement 
she  found  a  sixpenny  copy  of  the  New  Testament. 
It  was  the  first  time  she  had  a  Testament  of  her 
own.  She  took  it  home  and  began  to  read,  and 
as  she  read,  she  learned,  as  she  had  never  done 
before,  the  wonder  of  the  Saviour's  love,  and  how 
He  had  died  to  prove  that  love.  She  said  to  her- 
self, "  I  shall  not  have  this  joy  to  myself  alone." 
So  she  set  apart,  out  of  her  small  earnings,  one 
penny  every  day  for  Christ's  cause.  And  at  the 
end  of  each  week  she  bought  and  gave  to  some 
one  who  had  none,  a  copy  of  the  book  which  had 
been  such  a  joy  to  herself. 

It  was  not  much  either  of  these  girls  did.  It 
was  not  much  either  had  the  power  to  do.  But 
each  did  what  she  could  :  that  was  their  praise 
before  God. 

That  was  the  praise  also  of  a  young  lady,  I  was 
once  taken  to  see,  whose  service  seemed  even  less 
than  theirs.  She  had  been  thrown  from  a  carriage 
ten  years  before,  and  all  those  years  had  been  ill 
and  in  bed.  But  her  hands  were  free.  And  with 
her   free   hands   she   knit   little   gloves   for    poor 


54  ^/^^  Gentle  Heart. 

children.  It  was  only  helping  to  keep  warm  some 
little  fingers  that  would  otherwise  have  been  very- 
cold  in  winter.  But  it  was  all  she  was  able  to  do. 
And  it  was  done  with  a  loving  heart,  and  as  a  ser- 
vice to  the  Lord. 

IV. 

No  one  is  so  humble,  or  poor,  or  weak,  as  not 
to  be  able  to  do  sometliing.  Even  a  child  can 
serve  the  Lord. 

A  few  years  back,  on  a  Friday  morning  in  Sep- 
tember, three  tiny  little  children  in  Australia  went 
into  a  wood  to  fetch  some  broom  for  their  mother. 
It  was  a  beautiful  day.  The  ground  was  covered 
with  flowers,  and  the  children  set  themselves  to 
gather  them.  But  when  they  were  tired  with  this, 
and  had  prepared  the  little  bundle  for  home,  they 
could  no  longer  tell  on  what  side  home  was  to  be 
found.  And  Frank,  the  youngest  of  the  three,  was 
worn  out.  Taking  him  up  in  her  arms,  the  sister 
and  other  brother  looked  on  every  side  for  a  way 
out,  but  could  not  find  one.  Mile  after  mile  those 
weary  feet  pattered,  and  every  mile  was  taking 
them  farther  from  home.  They  cried  for  father 
and  mother.  "Cooey,  Cooey,  Cooey,"  they  called; 
but  all  in  vain.  There  was  no  human  ear  to  hear 
their  cries.     At  last  night  began  to  fall.     The  sis- 


On  Doing  ivJiat  zoe  Can.  55 


ter  looked  for  a  sheltering  bush.  Then  she  knelt 
down  with  her  other  brother  and  said  her  evening 
prayer, — 

"  Gentle  Jesus,  meek  and  mild, 
Look  upon  a  little  child." 

Then  the  two  laid  down  beside  Frank  and  went  to 
sleep.  And  this  was  repeated  on  Saturday,  on 
Sunday,  on  ^londay,  and  Tuesday,  the  poor  weary 
wanderers  still  carrying  the  broom  for  their  mother, 
still  looking  for  the  home  which  they  could  not 
find,  and  eating  berries  and  leaves  for  food.  By- 
and-by  the  beautiful  weather  came  to  an  end  and 
rain  poured  down,  and  when  night  came  Frank 
was  cold  as  well  as  weary.  The  sister  took  off  her 
frock,  and,  wrapping  the  child  in  that,  they  once 
more  took  shelter  under  a  bush.  It  was  nine  days 
altogether  before  they  were  found.  Father,  mother, 
neighbours,  shepherds,  farmers,  miners,  everybody 
in  the  neighbourhood  searched  for  them.  But 
some  natives,  going  down  on  their  knees,  and 
looking  for  the  marks  of  tiny  feet  on  the  wet 
ground,  were  the  first  to  come  on  their  track.  On 
Saturday,  led  by  these  poor  blacks,  their  father 
found  them  lying  asleep  under  a  bush,  and  nearly 
dead  with  weariness  and  hunger  and  cold.  The 
first  words  the  girl  said  when  she  was  roused  up 


5<3  The  Gentle  Heart. 

were  ^'cold,  cold,"  and  the  next,  after  she  had 
been  taken  to  a  hut  and  warmed  and  fed,  were 
the  words  of  her  Evening  Hymn. 

The  brave  little  mother  that  she  was !  The 
brave  self-forgetting  servant  of  Christ  !  She  had 
cheered  her  brothers  all  the  time.  She  had 
searched  about  for  food  for  them.  She  carried 
Frank  when  he  was  tired.  She  wrapped  him  in 
her  own  dress  when  he  was  cold.  And  at  night, 
when  they  went  to  sleep  under  the  shelter  of  some 
bush,  she  drew  them  together  and  said  her  evening 
prayer. 

That  was  her  praise  before  God  and  man  :  she 
had  done  what  she  could. 

V. 

It  is  wonderful  how  much  can  be  done,  and 
what  things  great  in  God's  sight,  if  people  would 
only  do  the  little  things  they  can. 

On  one  of  the  early  days  of  a  January  not  long 
ago,  a  Swedish  steamer  was  ^\ recked  on  the  North- 
umberland coast.  The  fisher  folk  of  Cresswell,  a 
village  near  by,  looking  seaward  that  day,  saw  the 
strange  vessel  among  the  breakers,  and  knew  that 
human  lives  were  in  peril.  It  is  a  little  place,  with 
only  fifteen  men  in  it,  and  of  these  two  were  un- 


Oil  Doing  ivhat  %ve  Can.  57 

able  to  work.  But  men  and  women  and  children 
turned  out  that  day  and  hauled  down  and  launched 
the  lifeboat,  and,  very  soon,  thirteen  brave  fellows 
were  struggling  with  the  wild  sea  to  save  the  lives 
on  the  wreck.  But  the  storm  was  too  fierce. 
They  were  driven  back  again  and  again.  While 
they  were  waiting  for  a  lull  in  the  storm  to  try 
again,  some  one  said,  ''Let  us  send  for  the  rocket." 
The  rocket  is  used  when  the  lifeboat  cannot  get 
near.  It  is  shot  up  into  the  air,  with  a  line  of 
cord  attached,  so  that  the  cord  falls  over  the 
vessel,  and  those  on  board  catch  it  and  pull  in  a 
rope  tied  to  the  end  of  it,  and  make  that  fast,  and 
come  sliding  one  by  one  to  land  by  the  rope.  But 
the  machine  for  firing  the  rocket  was  at  New- 
biggin,  five  miles  away,  and  the  night  was  closing 
in.  Would  anybody  go  to  Newbiggin  ?  A  young 
girl  stepped  forward.  She  would  go.  And  in  a 
moment  she  was  gone.  The  lives  of  human 
beings  depended  on  her  speed.  She  ran,  rather 
she  flew.  Like  the  fisher-girl  she  was,  she  kept 
the  shore  road,  and  to  gain  time  took  many  a  short 
cut  through  the  bays  on  the  way.  The  wild  sea 
was  on  the  one  side  drenching  her  with  its  spray  \ 
on  the  other,  was  the  wild  lonesome  land,  and 
above  and  around  her  the  deepening  night.     But 


58  The  Gentle  Heart. 

on  she  flew,  this  young  angel  of  mercy,  between 
rocks  and  waves,  through  the  surf,  through  the 
moanmg  of  the  storm,  through  the  darkness,  till 
she  gave  her  message  at  Newbiggin,  and  saw  the 
rocket  on  its  way.  And  then,  alone  as  before,  and 
once  more  through  darkness,  sea-wave,  and  storm, 
she  fled  back  over  the  same  five  lonesome  miles  to 
bring  the  good  news  to  Cresswell,  that  the  rocket 
was  on  the  way.  It  did  not  lessen  the  worth  of 
Avhat  she  had  done  that  meanwhile  the  lifeboat  had 
succeeded  in  its  next  attempt,  and  brought  the 
wrecked  people  safe  to  land.  Her  deed  was  well 
done  and  heroic.  She  was  ill  next  day,  ill  and 
cramped  all  over  in  bed.  No  wonder.  But  she 
had  done  a  brave,  noble.  Christian  deed,  and 
done  it  well.  It  is  fine  to  be  able  to  tell  that  she 
comes  of  a  good  stock,  for  her  father  was  steers- 
man of  the  lifeboat  that  day.  And  for  father  and 
child,  and  for  all  in  Cresswell  who  worked  so  well, 
it  may  surely  be  said,  "  They  wrought  a  good  work, 
they  did  what  they  could." 


OF  NOT  DOING    WHAT   WE    CAN. 


OF  NOT  DOING  WHAT  WE  CAN. 

THE  last  time  I  spoke  to  yon,  I  tried  to  set 
before  you  the  good  which  there  is  in  doing 
what  we  can.  To  do  what  one  can  is  all  that 
our  Lord  asks  us  to  do.  And  it  is  very  pleasant 
to  know  that  this  is  all  He  asks  us  to  do.  It  is 
like  having  His  heart  opened  to  us,  and  seeing  how 
tender  He  is  to  little  folks  and  children,  and  to 
people  not  strong,  and  poor  people.  And  I 
really  think  it  was  to  let  us  see  this  tenderness  of 
His  heart  for  the  little  ones  that  He  made  this 
His  praise  of  Mary :  "  She  hath  done  what  she 
could." 


But  to  this  lesson  there  are  two  sides.  And 
it  is  right  to  know  that  the  same  kind  Lord  Who 
has  made  this  easy  measure  for  little  workers, 
expects  all  His  workers,   big  and  little,  to  work 


62  The  Gentle  Heart. 

up  to  it  and  do  for  Him  as  much  as  they  are 
able.  He  will  not  lay  upon  any  of  us  more  than 
we  can  do.  But  what  we  can,  He  will  always 
have  us  to  do.  He  does  not  love  idlers,  nor 
people  who  run  away  from  duty.  He  told  this 
story  to  let  us  know  the  evil  of  not  doing  what 
we  can  :  — 

There  was  once  a  merchant  who  had  to  go 
to  a  far  country.  And  he  called  his  servants  and 
said  to  them :  "  Here  is  money,  and  when  I  am 
away  you  are  to  trade  with  it  and  make  more, 
and  when  I  come  back,  I  will  reckon  with  you." 
And  he  gave  one  ten  pounds,  one  five,  and  to  a 
third  he  gave  one.  When  he  came  back,  after  a 
long  while,  the  servant  who  got  ten  pounds  said  : 
"  I  traded  with  your  ten  pounds,  and  I  have 
made  other  ten  ; "  and  the  servant  who  got  five 
said,  "And  I  have  made  other  five."  The  master 
was  well  pleased  with  them.  But  the  servant  who 
had  got  only  one,  said:  "I  was  afraid  lest  I  should 
lose  your  money,  and  have  a  scolding  from  you, 
so  I  hid  it,  and  here  it  is  safe."  With  that  servant 
the  master  was  very  angry.  He  said  to  him,  "  You 
ought  not  to  have  buried  my  pound ;  you  should 
have  traded  with  it,  and  made  it  into  two  pounds." 
It    was   for    this    the    master    was  angry.       The 


Of  not  Doing  what  we  Can.  63 

servant  was  an  idler.     He   did   not  do  what  he 
could. 

II. 

And  that  is  always  and  for  all  mankind  an 
evil  thing.  And  sometimes  it  is  as  cruel  as  it 
is  evil. 

I  will  tell  you  a  little  bit  of  the  life  of  a  boy 
I  knew.  He  was  not  a  bad  boy.  He  was  far 
from  it.  He  loved  good  people  and  things  that 
were  good.  He  would  not  have  told  a  He,  or 
knowingly  done  a  mean  or  cruel  thing.  Yet 
once  he  did  a  thing  that  was  very  cruel  through 
forgetting  to  do  what  he  could.  A  friend  had 
made  him  a  present  of  a  blackbird.  At  first, 
there  was  no  end  to  his  joy.  This  was  his  own 
bird  :  its  cage  was  his ;  its  song  was  his ;  and  it 
was  to  him  the  bird  looked  for  its  food.  And 
for  a  long  while  he  was  very  good  to  it. 
He  kept  green  things  between  the  wires,  and 
brought  fresh  water  to  its  drinking  glass,  and 
kept  the  cage  clean  and  sweet ;  and  always  when 
he  came  in,  he  would  go  up  to  the  cage  and 
speak  to  it  and  cheer  it,  and  sometimes  he 
would  rise  from  his  lessons  and  have  a  little  talk 
with  his  bird. 

It   happened   that   the  boy's  mamma  took   ill, 


64  The  Gentle  Heart. 

and  the  song  of  the  blackbird  became  a  pain 
to  her.  So  the  cage  was  taken  up  to  an  attic  room. 
It  happened  at  the  same  time  that  the  game  of 
base-ball  came  in,  and  my  little  friend  was  very 
fond  of  that  game.  He  got  to  care  for  this  game 
so  much  that  his  care  for  the  lonely  blackbird 
grew  less  and  less.  He  had  no  time  now  for 
litde  talks  with  the  bird.  He  did  not  gather 
green  food  for  it,  or  bring  it  fresh  water  as  he 
used  to  do.  At  last,  one  day  he  forgot  it 
altogether.  He  had  to  hurry  off  to  school  as 
soon  as  he  rose  next  day.  In  the  afternoon  his 
classmates  took  him  off  to  the  playground.  He 
came  back  so  hot  and  tired  and  so  late  that  he 
could  only  get  to  bed.  His  poor  bird  went  out 
of  his  thoughts  entirely.  And  when,  two  or  three 
days  after,  some  one  in  the  family  said,  "  Harry, 
how  is  your  blackbird  getting  on  ? "  a  pang  shot 
through  Harry's  heart.  He  jumped  up,  ran  to 
the  attic  where  he  had  left  it,  and  found  it  lying 
at  the  bottom  of  the  cage  quite  dead.  By  his 
forgetfulness  and  neglect  and  not  doing  what  he 
could,  he  had  killed  his  beautiful  bird. 

III. 
And  it  is  not  birds  only  that  are  neglected  in 
this  way. 


Of  not  Doing  zvhat  ive  Can.  65 

A  poor  old  lady,  who  lived  where  I  once  lived, 
had  some  trouble  in  one  of  her  eyes.  Scales 
seemed  to  grow  over  it,  and  she  could  not  see. 
The  village  doctor  said  to  her,  "  It  is  but  a  little 
thing,  and  it  can  be  healed."  They  sent  her  to 
an  hospital  in  the  neighbouring  city,  and  the 
doctors  there  said,  *'  Yes,  it  is  a  little  thing,  and 
your  eye  shall  get  quite  well."  So  she  said  a 
silent  prayer  to  God,  and  put  herself  in  their 
hands.  They  took  a  knife  and  cut  the  scales 
away.  And  she  felt  the  touch  of  the  light  on  her 
eye,  and  said  joyfully,  "I  see  with  this  eye  again." 
The  doctors  wrapped  up  the  eye,  and  said  to  a 
nurse,  *'  Nurse,  this  patient  must  remain  in  a 
dark  room  for  two  weeks;  at  the  end  of  this 
time  she  should  be  well  enough  to  go  home." 

It  was  the  duty  of  the  nurse  to  whom  these 
words  were  said,  to  attend  to  all  whose  eyes 
had  been  cut,  and  put  them  at  once  into  a  warm 
bed,  and  give  them  food.  She  took  this  old  lady 
to  a  dark  room,  and  said,  "  Rest  here ;  I  will  be 
back  in  a  moment  and  put  you  to  bed."  But 
moment  after  moment  passed,  and  she  did  not 
come  back.  Hour  after  hour,  and  still  she  did 
not  come.  She  had  forgotten  all  about  her.  At 
last,  in  the  evening,  she  remembered  her  neglect, 

F 


66  TJie  Gentle  Heart. 

and  ran  up  to  the  room  where  the  old  lady  was. 
But  it  was  too  late.  The  day  had  been  cold. 
The  poor  lady  w^as  cold,  and  sick,  and  faint. 
When  she  was  put  to  bed  she  began  to  shiver.  A 
fever  set  in  ;  then  inflammation  of  the  eye  that  had 
been  cut ;  then  inflammation  of  the  eye  that  was 
well.  And  when  the  sickness  left  her,  both  eyes 
were  blind. 

What  had  taken  place  ?  A  very  evil  thing. 
This  nurse  had  not  done  what  she  could;  and, 
failing  to  do  that,  she  had  made  her  poor  sick 
patient  blind  for  life. 

IV. 

I  try  to  think  that  this  nurse  only  forgot.  I 
try  to  think  that  the  evil  she  did — and  what  she 
did  was  very  evil — was  because  she  did  not  think 
as  much  as  she  ought  to  have  done  about  her 
duties.  But  I  have  known  of  some  who  brought 
suffering  on  others  just  as  she  did,  by  not  doing 
what  they  could,  and  who  have  tried  to  hide  the 
evil  they  did  by  running  away  from  the  suffering 
they  caused. 

One  dark  night  a  few  years  ago,  an  emigrant 
ship,  with  four  hundred  people  on  board,  was 
lying   in   the  Channel   on  the   eve   of  sailing  to 


Of  not  Doing  lohat  zve  Can.  67 

Hobart  Town  far  away.  And  in  the  darkness, 
without  stroke  of  warning,  it  was  crashed  into 
by  a  steamer  and  sunk.  A  dark  night,  I  said, 
only  a  few  stars  twinkUng,  and  those  four  hundred 
human  beings  were  folded  up  in  sleep.  And  in 
the  darknesS;  and  while  they  slept,  there  was 
this  crash.  And  in  a  moment  death  was  rushing 
in  through  the  broken  sides  of  the  vessel,  and 
almost  instantly  the  vessel  began  to  sink.  Fathers, 
mothers,  little  babies,  sailors,  awoke  only  to  be 
swallowed  up  in  the  yawning  sea.  It  was  one  of  the 
most  pitiful  things  that  could  be — and  very  pitiful 
were  the  cries  of  the  poor  sufferers  as  they  were 
going  down  into  the  deep.  One  mother  came 
up  to  one  on  deck  and  cried,  "For  the  love  of 
God,  save  my  baby  !  "  But  the  baby  and  mother 
had  both  to  die.  A  father  and  two  sons  met  in 
the  water.  The  elder  son  said,  "  Father,  let  me  kiss 
you  for  my  last ;  for  we  shall  all  be  drowned." 
And  all  were  drowned.  The  brave  captain  sent 
his  young  wife  into  one  of  the  boats;  but  he 
himself  remained  to  help  and  die  at  his  task. 

And  while  this  was  going  on,  and  the  crowded 
ship  was  settling  down,  what  was  the  steamer  that 
had  given  the  stroke  of  death  doing?  It  is 
shameful  to  have  to  tell  it.     But  the  steamer  that 


eS  The  Gentle  Heart. 

caused  those  deaths  steamed  past,  and  on  into 
the  darkness.  And  human  hands  that  might 
have  helped,  and  a  vessel  that  might  have  saved 
hundreds  of  lives,  went  cruelly  past  ''  on  the 
other  side." 

The  officers  of  that  ship  did  not  what  they 
could.  They  could  have  taken  better  care ;  they 
could  have  had  a  better  outlook ;  they  could 
have  kept  further  off.  And  when  they  had,  what 
should  have  been  a  great  grief  to  them,  the  grief 
of  striking  the  ship  in  their  path,  they  should  have 
stopped  and  done  all  that  human  beings  could 
do  to  save  the  lives  in  the  ship.  The  Lord's 
measure  applied  to  them  is  this  :  "  They  wrought 
an  evil  work,  and  did  not  what  they  could  to 
repair  it." 

And  at  the  great  judgment  day  that  will  be  a 
terrible  sorrow  for  them  and  all  who  have  done  as 
they  did.  The  people  who  shall  be  condemned 
that  day  will  be  people  who  could  have  worked 
for  God,  and  did  not,  and  who  had  talents,  and 
did  not  use  them. 

And  we  should  all  know,  and  lay  it  to  heart 
now,  that  the  things  which  the  Lord  will  ask  us 
about  on  that  day  are  all  simple  things,  and 
things   easy  to  do.     And   the   condemnation   on 


Of  not  Doing  zvhat  zue  Can.  69 

those  who  shall  be  condemned  will  be  because 
those  easy  things  were  not  done.  They  could 
have  helped  when  help  was  needed ;  they  could 
have  had  pity  on  the  blind;  they  could  have 
saved  the  drowning  from  death  ;  they  could  have 
given  bread  to  the  hungry,  or  water  to  the  thirsty, 
or  clothes  to  the  naked,  or  pity  to  the  sick,  or  help 
to  the  prisoner.  And  surely  it  will  be  very  awful 
to  hear  the  gracious  and  loving  Jesus  saying, 
''  Inasmuch  as  ye  did  it  not  to  one  of  the  least 
of  these,  ye  did  it  not  to  ]\Ie." 


CHRIST'S  LETTERS. 


CHRISrS  LETTERS. 


IS  there  anything  in  the  world  more  wonderful 
than  a  letter  ?  When  the  English  missionaries 
first  went  to  Afi.-ica,  nothing  surprised  the  black 
people  more  than  the  letters  they  wrote.  ''  Does 
the  person  you  write  to  hear  you  speak?"  said  a 
chief  to  one  of  the  missionaries.  "  No."  '^  Does 
he  see  your  lips  move  ?"  "  No."  Then  he  ranged 
a  long  line  of  his  people  in  a  field,  asked  the  mis- 
sionary to  stand  at  one  end,  and  stood  with  a 
second  at  the  other  end.  ''  Now  write  what  I  bid 
you."  The  missionary  beside  him  put  down  the 
chief's  words,  and  the  bit  of  paper  was  passed  on 
by  a  messenger  to  the  other  end.  At  that  end  the 
missionary  standing  there  read  the  words  to  the 
messenger.  The  messenger  repeated  them  to  the 
chief,  and  the  chief  cried  out,  "  It  is  just  magic  !" 
And  a  letter  is  really  a  kind   of  magic.     It   is 


74  The  Gentle  Heart. 

only  a  sheet  of  paper  with  some  signs  on  it.  But 
it  tells  what  is  going  on  ten,  twenty,  a  hundred,  or 
a  thousand  miles  away.  Through  these  signs,  we, 
sitting  at  our  breakfast  tables,  can  see  homes  over 
wide  seas,  and  the  people  living  in  them,  and  bap- 
tisms, and  marriages,  and  sick-beds  and  funerals. 
By  these  signs  commands  come  from  far  countries, 
and  merchants  in  this  land  rise  and  go  to  the 
market,  or  the  exchange,  or  the  bookstore,  or  the 
house  of  a  neighbour,  and  do  the  biddings  of  those 
who  wrote  them  down.  And  by  these  signs  the 
secrets  of  one  heart  are  carried  into  another ;  and 
two  hearts  know  the  secrets  instead  of  one. 

II. 
The  Lord  has  always  been  a  letter  writer.  He 
has  written  His  letters  on  the  blue  sky  and  on  the 
green  earth.  Summer  and  winter,  springtime  and 
harvest  are  sentences  from  one  of  His  letters.  He 
wrote  ten  words  once,  thousands  of  years  ago,  on 
sheets  of  stone  at  Mount  Sinai,  and  those  words 
arc  read  still  in  every  part  of  the  earth.  He  has 
written  two  long  letters  to  men  in  the  Bible  :  the 
one  is  called  the  Old  Testament,  the  other  the 
New  Testament,  and  those  letters  have  been  copied 
thousands  of  times  and  are  being  sent  to  and  fro 
among  all  the  nations  of  mankind. 


Christ's  Letters.  75 

But  from  the  beginning  He  said  :  "  It  is  not 
enough  for  Me  that  I  write  on  the  sky  and  the  field, 
or  on  leaves  of  stone,  or  paper.  I  want  something 
better  still  to  write  My  letters  on.  I  will  only  be 
satisfied  when  men  allow  Me  to  write  My  letters 
on  their  hearts  ;  and  when  I  can  lay  My  heart  with 
all  its  secrets  on  the  hearts  of  men  and  women 
and  boys  and  girls,  and  leave  the  imprint  of  these 
secrets  there." 

It  was  this  His  prophets  said  so  often  in  the  old 
times.  They  said  that  a  day  would  come,  a  happy 
day,  when  God  would  write  His  laws  no  more  on 
tables  of  stone,  as  the  Ten  Commandments  were, 
but  on  the  heart.  That  day  came  when  Jesus 
came.  He  made  His  words  go  into  the  hearts  of 
those  who  listened  to  Him.  It  was  all  the  same 
as  if  He  had  written  on  their  hearts,  and  these 
hearts  had  become  Letters  from  Christ. 

So  Paul  gives  that  name  to  the  boys  and  girls 
and  the  men  and  women  who  have  let  Christ 
write  the  secrets  of  His  heart  on  theirs.  He  calls 
them  epistles  of  Christ — letters  written  on  the 
fleshly  leaves  of  the  heart.  And  there  is  nothing 
better  in  the  world  for  a  boy  or  girl  than  to  be  a 
letter  of  this  kind  for  Christ. 


76  The  Gentle  Heart. 

III. 

Some  years  ago  the  people  living  in  Paris  were 
surrounded  by  the  German  army,  and  could  neither 
get  out  themselves,  nor  have  anybody  coming  in. 
They  were  besieged  by  that  army,  and  all  the  while 
the  siege  lasted  neither  bread,  nor  milk,  nor  coals, 
nor  wood,  nor  horse,  nor  cow  could  get  in.  It  was 
a  hard  time,  and  the  people  suffered  for  want  of 
food.  But  there  was  another  thing  they  greatly 
suffered  for  want  of — and  that  was  news  of  dear 
ones  in  other  parts  of  the  world.  At  last  those 
dear  ones  wrote  letters  on  the  first  page  of  the 
Times  newspaper  in  London.  Then  a  photo- 
grapher made  a  copy  of  that  first  page  so  small 
that  it  was  only  the  size  of  a  penny  stamp.  Then 
those  tiny  pages  were  tied  under  the  wings  of  doves 
and  carried  by  them  over  the  heads  of  the  German 
army  into  Paris.  There  the  photographers  made 
the  tiny  papers  large  again.  And  in  this  way  the 
people  in  Paris  got  letters  from  the  dear  ones  far 
away. 

The  Lord  Jesus  does  something  like  this  in 
writing  His  letters  on  young  hearts.  He  has  a 
great  deal  to  say :  but  the  hearts  of  children  are 
too  small  to  receive  all  His  words.  So  the  Lord 
makes  His  letter  small,  so  small  that  it  can  all  be 


Chrisfs  Letters.  yj 

printed  on  a  child's  heart.  And  then  as  years  go 
on  and  the  body  grows  tall,  the  heart  grows  larger 
and  larger,  and  the  letters  grow  with  the  growth  of 
the  heart,  and  when  boys  and  girls  come  to  be 
young  men  and  women  they  find  that  the  loving 
Jesus  has  written  nearly  all  the  Bible  on  their  hearts. 

IV. 

But  sometimes  it  is  only  a  single  sentence  He 
writes.  During  a  very  cold  winter,  between  twenty 
and  thirty  years  ago,  there  were  two  stories  in  the 
newspapers  which  went  to  every  heart.  A  poor 
actor  left  Inverness  for  the  town  of  Cromarty,  where 
he  was  engaged  to  play.  He  had  his  little  girl 
with  him,  a  child  of  seven  or  eight.  Snow  had  al- 
ready begun  to  fall  when  he  set  out.  But  by  and 
by  a  storm  arose,  and  the  snow  fell  so  thickly  that 
all  the  sky  became  dark  with  it,  and  the  poor  tra- 
vellers lost  their  way.  In  a  day  or  two,  half  way  to 
Cromarty,  at  a  lonely  turn  of  the  road,  where  there 
was  some  shelter,  the  two  were  found  buried  in  the 
snow,  and  dead.  But  it  was  noticed  that  the  child 
was  wrapped  round  with  the  father's  overcoat, 
which  he  had  taken  from  himself  to  keep  her 
warm. 

The  cold  was  so  great  that  year  that  many  poor 


78  The  Gentle  Heart. 

people  died  of  it  in  their  very  houses,  where  they 
had  neither  fire  nor  food.  Among  those  who  died 
was  a  lonely  mother  in  one  of  our  cities.  She  was 
found  cold  dead  on  the  floor  of  her  home,  and 
nearly  naked,  but  beside  her  was  her  living  child, 
living  and  warm,  well  wrapped  up  in  the  clothes 
which  the  mother  had  taken  from  her  own  body. 

What  were  those  two :  the  poor  actor  who 
stripped  himself  of  his  coat  to  keep  warm  his 
child :  the  poor  mother  who  went  nearly  naked  to 
keep  her  baby  alive  ?  They  were  letters  written 
by  Christ  and  sent  out  to  be  read  of  all,  letters 
written  with  one  of  the  deepest  secrets  of  His 
heart.  What  He  wrote  on  those  two  hearts  was 
sacrifice,  pity,  love,  like  God's.  Just  as  those  two 
acted,  Christ  would  have  acted  if  He  had  been  in 
their  places.  It  was  even  so  He  did  act,  when  on 
the  cross  He  died  for  man.  He  took  His  own  life 
and  wrapped  us  round  with  it,  that  we  might  not 
die  but  live.  And  He  would  have  every  one  of  us 
to  act  to  others  as  He  acted  towards  us.  And  on 
our  hearts,  as  on  the  hearts  of  those  two  of  whom 
I  have  told,  He  desires  to  write  pity  and  self-sacri- 
fice, and  kindness  and  love. 

v. 

I  shall  never  forget  the  winter  in  which  those 


Christ's  L&tters.  79 


two  died.  I  had  gone  to  reside  in  a  little  country 
town  among  the  hills,  and  a  great  snowstorm  came 
on  the  very  first  week  I  was  there.  Day  and 
night  the  snow  continued  to  fall.  The  roads  were 
blocked  up,  the  stage  coaches  could  not  leave. 
At  last  the  Httle  town  was  cut  off  from  the  rest  of 
the  world.  It  so  happened  that  I  had  promised 
to  be  at  a  meeting  in  a  neighbouring  town  about 
eight  miles  off.  And  I  wanted  to  fulfil  my 
promise.  So  I  got  a  friend  to  help  me  to  find 
the  way,  and  with  a  second  friend  who  was  staying 
with  me  we  set  forth.  The  whole  country,  far  as 
the  eye  could  see,  was  one  unbroken  sheet  of 
snow.  The  roads  were  buried.  The  very  hedge- 
rows were  not  to  be  seen.  Not  a  foot  mark,  nor 
track  of  a  wheel  was  to  be  seen.  We  were  the 
first  since  the  snow  began  to  attempt  the  journey. 

When  we  had  worked  our  way  about  three 
miles,  we  saw  one  other  traveller  coming  towards 
us.  It  was  the  letter-carrier  with  the  mail-bag 
for  the  town  we  had  left.  We  could  not  help 
thinking  him  a  wonderful  sight.  There  was  no 
other  being  on  that  white  waste  'of  snow.  But 
what  he  represented  was  more  Vv'onderful  than 
himself.  He  represented  the  government  of  the 
country.     Humble  though  he  was,  he  was  a  public 


8o  The  Gentle  HcaH. 

servant.  Thousands  of  other  servants,  on  other 
hills,  on  other  roads,  would  be  doing  the  same 
service  which  he  was  trying  to  do.  Then  we 
thought  of  the  letters  in  his  bag.  Then  of  the 
letters  in  other  bags.  Then  of  all  those  letters  as 
filled  with  things  interesting  one  way  or  other  to 
those  who  should  receive  them.  And  we  thought 
of  the  government  as  the  power  which  was  sending 
them  all  on  to  the  persons  to  whom  they  were 
addressed. 

And  then  this  thought  came  into  our  minds  : 
There  is  a  greater  government  than  ours — the 
government  of  God— and  that  too  is  sending  forth 
over  all  the  land — throughout  all  the  world — 
letters  written  not  on  paper  with  ink,  but  on  the 
hearts  of  men  and  women  and  boys  and  girls,  and 
written  by  Christ  Himself.  Then  we  remembered 
the  words  in  second  Corinthians  :  "The  epistle  of 
Christ,  ministered  by  us,  written  not  with  ink,  but 
with  the  Spirit  of  the  living  God." 

VI. 

It  was  Paul  who  wrote  those  words.  It  is  very 
helpful  always  when  Paul  says  a  word  like  this  to 
know  why  he  says  it.  He  was  sending  a  letter  to 
Christian  people  in  Corinth  to  whom  he  had  often 


Christ's  Letters.  8i 

preached.  But  he  knew  that  there  were  some 
among  them  who  did  not  care  for  his  preaching, 
and  also  had  spoken  evil  about  himself.  He  did 
not  like  to  have  evil  spoken  about  him  :  no  good 
man  does.  But  Paul  did  not  like  it  because  evil 
words  spoken  about  him  were  all  the  same  as  if 
they  were  spoken  against  the  gospel  he  preached. 
And  as  he  is  writing,  this  comes  into  his  mind,  and 
he  stops  for  a  moment  and  asks  himself :  Shall  I 
reply  to  the  evil  words?  But  he  does  not  reply 
to  them.  He  only  began  his  writing  again,  and 
says  :  "  Do  I  really  need  to  defend  myself  before 
you?  Do  you  know  me  so  little  that  I  should 
have  to  bring  a  letter  of  commendation  to  you? 
Must  I  get  other  people  to  tell  you  that  I  am  not 
a  bad  man  ?  Surely  that  cannot  be  needful  when 
I  am  writing  to  my  Corinthian  friends.  You  are 
written  on  my  heart  j  I  am  written  on  yours.  You 
are  my  best  letter  of  commendation.  If  anybody 
speaks  ill  of  me  I  appeal  to  you  and  to  your 
Christian  life.  It  was  through  me  Christ  made 
you  Christian.  He  wrote  the  secrets  of  His  heart 
on  your  lives;  and  I,  unworthy  although  some 
think  me,  was  His  penman  when  He  did  so.  You 
are  epistles  of  Christ,  living  epistles,  and  it  was  my 
preaching  which  Christ  used  to  make  you  that." 

G 


82  TJie  Gentle  Heart. 

No  evil  speaker  could  answer  back  to  that.  A 
Christian  life  is  like  a  letter  filled  with  the  words 
of  Christ.  If  the  people  to  whom  Paul  had 
preached  were  now  like  Christ,  it  was  a  proof  that 
Christ  Himself  had  written  that  likeness  on  their 
hearts. 

VII. 

A  dear  friend  of  mine  when  she  was  a  little  girl 
went  to  live  at  Cape  Breton.  At  that  time  letters 
arrived  but  once  a  month  from  this  country. 
There  was  no  post  office  to  leave  the  bags  at : 
there  was  only  a  great  open  road  through  the 
forest,  and  little  foot-roads  from  the  village  leading 
up  to  it.  The  letter-carrier  as  he  passed  each  oi 
these  foot-roads  got  out  the  letters  from  his  bag 
which  were  to  go  that  way,  and  dropped  them  into 
a  box  that  was  fixed  on  a  tree.  Then  somebody 
came  up  from  the  village  with  a  key  and  opened 
the  box  and  took  the  letters  away.  It  w^as  my 
friend  who  had  this  duty  to  do.  She  had  a 
long  walk  of  many  miles  before  she  came  to  the 
end  of  the  narrow  foot-road,  then  she  opened  the 
box,  and  often,  she  used  to  tell,  the  tears  would 
come  into  her  eyes  when  there  were  no  letters, 
or  letters  with  black  borders ;  and  when  she  got 
letters,  and  took  them  back,  and  sometimes  found 


Chrisfs  Letters.  83 


that  one  now  and  again  was  unpleasant  or  silly 
everybody  was  vexed. 

I  sometimes  think  that  a  school  is  like  that 
letter  box  in  the  forest.  There  are  children  at 
school  who  are  like  silly  letters,  or  empty  letters, 
and  sometimes  like  bad  letters.  And  I  think  it 
is  so  sad — it  is  just  like  my  friend  at  Cape  Breton 
coming  miles  through  the  lonely  forest  for  letters 
and  finding  none,  or  finding  only  letters  that  were 
bad — when  a  young  boy  or  girl  is  sent  to  a  school, 
and  finds  no  one  there  on  whose  heart  Jesus  has 
written  His  tenderness,  or  truth,  or  love.  But  it  is 
a  blessing  which  words  cannot  tell,  when  coming 
to  a  school,  the  young  comer  finds  hearts  and  lives 
on  which  Christ  has  written  His  love. 

You  remember  the  story  in  "Tom  Brown's  School 
Days  "  about  the  gentle  boy  who  knelt  down  the 
first  night  he  came  to  say  his  prayers,  and  the  rude 
fellows  who  made  a  mock  of  him  ?  But  he  found 
one  there  on  whose  heart  Christ  had  written,  who 
stood  up  for  him.  And  a  great  blessing  came  into 
the  school  through  this  one  gentle  boy,  and  that 
other  brave  lad  who  defended  him,  being  epistles 
written  by  Christ.  What  was  written  on  their 
hearts  came  to  be  written  by-and-by  on  the  hearts 
of  those  who  had  mocked. 


84  TJie  Gentle  Heart. 

I  will  give  you  therefore  a  prayer  to  offer  up 
at  school.  Say  to  God  :  "  O  my  Father,  blot  out 
folly  if  Thou  seest  it  written  on  my  heart ;  blot  out 
everything  there  that  is  a  grief  to  Thee,  and  write 
Thy  name  and  law  instead ;  and  make  me  a  clear, 
well-filled  epistle,  to  tell  of  the  goodness  I  have 
found  in  Thee." 


ON  PUTTING    THE  RIGHT  THING 
TIRST 


ON    PUTTING   THE    RIGHT    THING 
FIRST. 

IT  is  a  great  thing  in  a  child's  Hfe  to  know  the 
first  thing  to  seek  after.  It  is  greater  still, 
when  that  is  known,  to  seek  that  first  thing  first. 

What  most  people  do  is  to  seek  some  second 
thing  first,  and  the  first  thing  second,  or  not  at  all. 

Now  there  are  just  two  things  in  life  which 
people  seek  after.  These  are  right  things  and  nice 
things.  And  of  these  two,  the  first  to  seek  after  is 
the  right  thing ;  the  second  is  the  nice  or  pleasant 
thing. 

In  the  sermon  on  the  mount,  our  Lord,  speaking 
of  those  two  things,  says — Seek  the  right  thing 
first,  and  the  pleasant  things  will  come  after. 
"  Seek  first  the  kingdom  of  God  and  His  right- 
eousness, and  all  these  things,"  all  pleasant  things, 
things  like  food  and  clothing,    "  shall  be   added 


SS  TJie  Gentle  Heart. 

unto  you."  It  is  the  same  as  if  He  had  said,  Seek 
first  what  ye  ought  to  seek,  and  God  will  send  you 
what  you  would  like  to  get.  The  right  things,  the 
things  of  God,  and  of  heaven,  and  of  the  soul, 
first ;  the  pleasant  things,  the  things  of  the  world, 
of  earth,  and  of  the  body,  next.  God,  religion, 
duty,  first  j  honour,  health,  happiness,  next. 

I. 

The  great  King  Solomon  began  life  by  seeking 
the  best  things  first.  He  had  sought  knowledge 
and  wisdom  from  the  prophet  Nathan  when  a  boy. 
And  when  he  was  made  king,  hardly  out  of  his 
boyhood,  he  began  his  reign  by  seeking  the  help 
of  God.  One  of  his  first  acts  as  a  king  was  to  take 
his  great  captains,  judges,  and  counsellors  up  to 
the  hill  Gibeon,  to  ask  this  help  from  God. 

It  must  have  been  a  great  sight,  the  beautiful 
young  king  in  his  royal  robes,  the  soldiers  in  their 
armour,  the  counsellors  and  judges  in  their  robes 
of  honour,  as  they  went  up  the  sides  of  the  hill  to 
the  place  of  prayer.  Priests  were  there  with  sheep 
and  oxen  for  the  sacrifice.  There  still  was  the 
old  tent  which  had  gone  with  the  people  in  all 
their  wanderings.  There  also  was  the  brazen  altar 
which  Bezaleel  had  made  for  Moses  long  before  in 


On  Putting  the  Right  Tiling  First.     89 

the  wilderness.  The  air  was  filled  with  the  clang 
of  trumpets  as  the  king  and  his  mighty  men  went 
up.  Then  rose  from  the  brazen  altar  the  smoke  of 
the  sacrifices.  "A  thousand  burnt-ofi"erings  did 
Solomon  offer  upon  that  altar."  A  beautiful 
sight  !  But  the  beautiful  thing  at  the  heart  of  it 
all  was  this — that  it  was  a  young  king  beginning 
his  life  as  a  king  by  seeking  the  best  things  first. 

On  the  night  which  followed  that  day  of  prayer, 
Solomon  was  asleep  in  Gibeon.  And  God  came 
to  him  in  a  dream  and  said,  "  Ask  what  I  shall 
give  thee."  And  even  in  the  dream  of  the  night, 
the  heart  of  the  young  king  went  out  towards  the 
best  things.  He  remembered  that  the  kingdom 
he  was  called  to  rule  over  was  a  great  kingdom, 
and  he  was  still  a  mere  lad.  So  he  said, — "  I  am 
but  a  little  child,  yet,  O  Lord.  I  know  not  how 
to  go  out,  or  come  in.  And  Thy  servant  is  in  the 
midst  of  Thy  people  which  Thou  hast  chosen,  a 
great  people  that  cannot  be  numbered,  nor  counted 
for  multitude.  Give,  therefore,  Thy  servant,  an 
understanding  heart  to  judge  Thy  people,  that  I 
may  discern  between  good  and  bad;  for  who  is 
able  to  judge  this  Thy  so  great  people  ?  " 

Now  that  was  the  right  thing  to  seek.  It  was 
therefore  the  best  thing.    And  Solomon  sought  that 


90  TJie  Gentle  Heart. 

best  thing  first  and  received  it.  And  God  "  added  " 
the  pleasant  things.  He  gave  him  riches,  and 
honour,  and  long  life  besides.  "  Because  thou  hast 
asked  this  thing" — this  best,  right  thing,  and  hast 
not  asked  for  thyself  long  life,  or  riches,  or  the  life 
of  thine  enemies,  behold  ...  I  have  also 
given  thee  what  thou  hast  not  asked,  both  riches 
and  honour,  so  that  there  shall  not  be  any  among 
the  kings  like  unto  thee  all  thy  days."  It  hap- 
pened to  him  just  as  our  Lord  says:  "Seek  first 
the  kingdom  of  God  and  His  righteousness,  and 
all  these  things,"  food  and  clothing,  and  a  happy 
life,  and  honour,  "  shall  be  added  unto  you." 

II. 

Now  Solomon  had  a  brother  who  took  the 
other  plan.  It  was  his  brother  Absalom.  He 
was  an  elder  brother,  but  not  a  wiser  brother. 
This  brother  put  the  pleasant  thing,  the  thing  he 
would  like,  first.  And  he  put  the  right  thing 
second. 

The  thing  he  thought  pleasant,  and  put  first, 
was  to  be  king  on  his  father's  throne.  He  kept 
saying  to  himself,  "  Oh,  if  I  were  only  king  ! " 
He  was  a  very  beautiful  man.  And  it  was  part  of 
his  beauty  that  he  had  a  fine  liead   of  long  and 


On  Putting  the  Right  Thing  First.     91 

curly  hair.  And  he  was  proud  of  this  hair,  and 
sometimes  would  dress  it,  and  show  himself  to  the 
people.  At  last  he  thought  his  hair  would  help 
him  to  become  king.  So  one  day  he  dressed  it, 
and  put  on  his  princely  robes,  and  sat  at  one  of 
the  gates  of  Jerusalem,  and  as  the  people  went  out 
and  in,  he  kept  saying,  "  If  I  were  king  things 
should  go  better  with  you  all." 

Now  that  was  a  very  pleasant  thing  to  wish  for, 
to  be  king.  But  just  then,  and  for  Absalom,  it 
was  not  a  right  thing.  For  his  father  David  was 
still  living.  And  he  was  still  king.  And  the  right 
thing  for  Absalom,  his  son,  was  to  honour  and 
obey  his  father,  so  long  as  that  father  lived.  But 
he  did  not  honour  his  father.  He  wished  his 
father  dead  and  away.  His  one  wish,  the  wish  he 
put  first  among  all  the  wishes  of  his  heart,  was  to 
be  king  in  his  father's  place.  Often  he  would  look 
at  himself  in  a  mirror  and  say,  "  What  a  splendid 
figure  I  shall  make  seated  on  the  throne  ! "  And 
he  thought  day  and  night  about  it.  And  he  wished 
this  evil  wish.  And  to  those  who  would  listen 
to  him,  he  talked  about  it.  Although  he  never 
prayed  to  God,  he  began  to  pray  to  the  people. 
As  they  came  in  by  the  gates  of  the  city,  he  said^ 
"  Dear  people,  make  me  your  king." 


71  le  Gentle  Heart. 


Some  of  the  people  were  foolish  and  wicked, 
and  listened  to  his  prayer.  And  they  joined  to- 
gether to  drive  the  old  King  David  away  from  the 
kingdom,  and  put  beautiful  young  Absalom  on  the 
throne.  And  Absalom  and  his  people  got  swords 
and  spears,  and  began  to  fight.  They  got  to- 
gether a  great  army  to  drive  out  David.  And 
David  was  driven  from  his  home  and  from  Jerusa- 
lem, and  had  to  flee  beyond  Jordan. 

But  when  this  had  gone  on  for  a  short  while, 
some  of  the  people  who  still  loved  David,  and 
thought  that  right  things  should  go  before  pleasant 
things,  came  together  with  swords  and  spears  also, 
to  fight  against  the  army  of  Absalom.  And  there 
was  a  great  battle  in  the  forest  of  Ephraim. 
Absalom  was  there  amongst  his  fighting  men  on 
the  batde-field.  But  as  he  rode  about  on  his 
royal  mule  he  was  separated  from  his  own  soldiers, 
and  met  those  of  his  father.  And  he  was  afraid, 
and  turned  and  fled  back  into  the  wood  to  hide 
himself  until  they  passed.  But  as  he  rode,  his 
beautiful  hair  was  caught  in  one  of  the  branches 
of  a  tree.  And  his  affrighted  mule  rode  on  from 
under  him.  And  he  was  left  hanging  between  the 
branches  and  the  ground.  The  hair  he  was  so 
proud  of  held   him   fast,  till  his  father's  soldiers 


On  Putting  the  Right  Thing  First.     93 

closed  round  about  him,  and  put  him  to  death. 
Then  they  threw  him  into  a  ditch  and  covered 
him  with  stones. 

That  was  the  end  of  Absalom.  He  put  the 
pleasant  thing  first,  and  the  right  thing  last.  And 
he  lost  all— everything  he  had  liked  and  worship- 
ped, and  sought  after — his  beautiful  hair,  the  face 
he  had  so  often  looked  at  in  the  mirror,  his  place 
among  the  princes  of  Israel,  his  honour  and 
character  as  a  son,  and  at  last  life  itself. 

III. 

This  has  always  been  God's  way.  In  all  ages 
and  to  all  sorts  of  men,  those  who  have  put  the 
right  things  first  have  been  blessed  by  Him :  those 
who  have  put  the  pleasant  things  first  have  been 
troubled. 

The  prophet  Daniel  was  a  man  who  put  the 
right  things  first.  He  loved  God.  He  loved  pray- 
ing to  God.  Three  times  a  day,  with  his  windows 
open  towards  Jerusalem,  where  God's  temple  was, 
he  cried  to  God  in  prayer.  But  the  wicked  men  of 
Babylon  hated  this  praying  to  God.  And  they 
hated  Daniel  because  he  prayed  to  God.  So  they 
got  the  king  to  say,  that  for  thirty  days  everybody 
was  to  pray  to  him,  and  to  him  only,  and  every  one 


94  The  Gentle  Heart. 

who  prayed  to  God,  as  Daniel  did,  should  be  cas 
into  a  den  of  lions.     What  Daniel  had  to  choose 
between,  therefore,   was  this  right  thing — praying 
to  God — and  this  pleasant  thing^saving  himself 
from  being  cast  into  the  den  of  lions. 

I  am  sure  life  was  as  sweet  to  Daniel  as  it  is 
to  you  and  me.  It  could  never  be  a  pleasant 
thing  to  be  cast  into  a  den  of  lions.  And  he 
might  have  said,  "  'Tis  only  for  thirty  days."  But 
then,  there  was  nothing  wrong  in  being  cast  among 
the  lions.  And  it  would  have  been  quite  wrong, 
even  for  thirty  days,  to  have  stopped  praying  to 
God,  or  to  have  prayed  to  the  king  instead  of  God. 
The  right  thing  to  do  was  to  keep  on  praying  to 
God;  the  pleasant  thing,  to  keep  from  being 
thrown  to  the  lions.  But  when  the  two  came 
together,  and  he  had  to  put  one  of  the  two  first, 
he  put  the  right  thing  first.  He  kept  on  praying 
to  God. 

Now  it  was  not  Daniel  only  who  had  to  make 
this  choice.  The  bad  men  who  got  the  king  to 
pass  the  wicked  law,  they  also  had  a  choice  to 
make.  It  was  a  pleasant  thing  for  them  to  get 
Daniel  thrown  to  the  lions.  It  is  always  pleasant 
for  bad  men  to  get  good  men  out  of  their  way. 
But  although  it  was  pleasant,  it  was  wrong.     And 


0)1  Putting  the  Right  Thing  First.     95 

it  was  very  wrong.  The  right  thing  was  to  have 
left  Daniel  free  to  pray  to  his  God.  The  right  thing 
would  have  been  to  have  said,  "O  king,  do  not 
pass  such  a  cruel  law  as  that."  But  they  put  the 
pleasant  thing,  which  was  also  a  cruel,  wicked 
thing,  first.  And  from  the  right  thing  they  hid 
their  eyes  entirely. 

See  now  how  differently  God  dealt  with  Daniel 
and  with  them. 

Daniel  had  put  the  right  thing  first.  He  had 
said,  "  I  dare  not  stop  praying  to  God."  And 
God  did  not  forsake  him  when  he  was  cast  into 
the  lions'  den.  All  that  night,  all  through  the 
black  hours,  beside  those  hungry  lions,  face  to  face 
with  their  sleepless  eyes,  God,  unseen,  stood  by 
His  servant  and  shut  their  mouths. 

But  when  the  men  who  had  put,  not  the  right 
thing,  not  God's  honour  and  law,  first,  but  their 
own  wicked  and  cruel  pleasure,  when  they  came 
next  day  and  were  thrown,  because  of  their  wicked- 
ness, in  Daniel's  stead,  among  the  lions,  God  let 
the  fierce  beasts  open  their  mouths  to  destroy 
them.  In  a  moment  the  "  lions  had  the  mastery 
of  them,  and  brake  all  their  bones  in  pieces,  or 
ever  they  came  at  the  bottom  of  the  den." 


96  The  Gentle  Heart. 

IV. 

This  is  still  God's  way ;  His  law  never  changes. 
Although  twenty-four  hundred  years  have  passed 
since  He  saved  Daniel,  He  still  puts  a  blessing  on 
all  who  like  Daniel  put  the  right  thing  first.  And 
He  refuses  to  bless  those  who  put  the  pleasant 
thing  first. 

About  thirty  years  ago  there  was  a  famous  mas- 
ter at  one  of  our  universities  who  used  to  give  a 
gold  medal  every  year  to  the  student  who  wrote 
the  best  essay  on  "  Truth."  And  year  by  year  the 
name  of  the  student  who  gained  the  medal  was  set 
up  in  letters  of  gold  on  the  walls  of  that  master's 
class-room.  One  year  there  came  up  from  the 
country  a  young  lad  who  wanted  greatly  to  have 
his  name  on  these  walls  in  letters  of  gold.  And  he 
set  his  heart  on  winning  the  gold  medal  for  the 
essay  on  "  Truth."  As  he  was  pacing  to  and  fro 
in  the  corridors  of  the  university  one  day,  thinking 
what  fine  things  he  could  put  into  his  essay,  the 
author  of  an  essay  which  gained  the  medal  some 
previous  year  went  past.  And  in  a  moment  it 
flashed  into  the  young  student's  mind,  that  if  he 
could  get  this  essay  to  read,  he  might  find  out 
from  it  what  sort  of  essay  was  likely  to  win  the 
prize.     So  he  went  to   the  author  and  borrowed 


On  Putting  the  Right  Tiling  First.     97 

the  essay  which  had  won  the  prize.  But  when 
he  read  the  essay  he  saw  that  it  was  far  beyond 
anything  he  could  think  or  write.  And  the  evil 
thought  came  into  his  soul  to  copy  it  from  begin- 
ning to  end,  and  send  it  in  as  his  own.  It  would 
be  so  pleasant  to  get  the  prize.  It  would  be 
so  pleasant  to  have  his  name  printed  up  on  the 
walls  in  letters  of  gold.  It  would  be  so  pleasant 
when  he  went  back  to  the  country  to  have  the 
neighbours  and  his  old  schoolfellows  saying,  *'  That 
is  the  man  who  got  the  medal  of  gold  for  the  essay 
on  '  Truth.' "  And  he  did  that  very  thing.  He 
put  all  thought  of  what  was  right  out  of  his  soul. 
He  thought  only  of  what  was  pleasant.  He  bent 
the  whole  force  of  his  mind  to  seek  his  own 
pleasure.  He  neither  sought  righteousness,  nor 
fairness  to  others,  nor  truth,  nor  honesty,  nor  God. 
He  sat  down  and  copied  out  the  whole  of  the 
borrowed  essay,  word  by  word,  and  put  his  own 
name  on  the  back  of  it,  and  sent  it  in  to  the 
master  as  his  own. 

The  master  read  the  essay,  and  said,  "  This  is 
the  best  essay  of  the  year  \  it  deserves  the  prize." 
But,  although  he  said  that,  some  words  in  the 
essay  kept  coming  back  to  him,  as  if  he  had  some- 
where or  other  seen   them  before.     And  by-and- 

H 


98  The  Gentle  Heart. 

by,  the  whole  essay  came  back  to  his  memory,  and 
he  found  out  that  it  was  the  essay  which  had  won 
the  medal  two  years  before. 

The  Bible  says,  "Shame  is  the  promotion  of 
fools."  Instead  of  glory,  this  foohsh  lad  was  to 
have  shame.  The  master  brought  the  essay  to  his 
class  next  morning,  and  told  the  whole  sad,  shame- 
ful story,  and  ended  by  expelling  the  foolish  writer 
of  it  from  his  class.  He  had  put  the  pleasant 
thing  first,  the  right  thing  last.  He  wanted  honour 
and  a  gold  medal,  and  his  name  printed  in  letters 
of  gold ;  but  what  he  got  was  disgrace,  and  an  evil 
name  that  followed  him  all  his  days. 

V. 

I  have  just  one  thing  more  to  say  to  you.  We 
have  all  got  to  put  the  right  thing  first,  even  when 
no  good  can  come  to  us  in  this  world.  God  will 
still  bless  us  for  doing  it ;  but  the  blessing  may  not 
appear  till  we  are  in  His  presence  in  heaven. 

One  of  our  English  poets  has  a  beautiful  ballad, 
in  which  he  tells  the  story  of  a  little  nurse  who 
acted  in  this  heroic  way.  On  the  31st  of  May, 
1868,  at  Newcastle,  this  girl,  Margaret  Wilson,  was 
playing  beside  the  railway,  not  far  from  the  station, 
with  three  younger  children  who  were  in  her  care. 


On  Putting  the  Right  Thing  First.     99 

While  they  were  in  the  midst  of  their  play  an  engine 
and  its  tender  came  gliding  up. 

"  The  dreadful  weight  of  iron  wheels 
Among  them  in  a  moment  steals, 
And  death  is  rolling  at  their  heels  !" 

Maggie,  seeing  the  danger,  ran  at  once  with  a  little 
boy  to  the  platform.  But  when  she  looked  behind 
for  her  other  two  babes,  she  saw  them  in  the  very 
pathway  of  the  engine.  In  a  moment,  without 
thought  of  her  own  safety,  she  ran  back.  She  had 
just  time  to  snatch  them  out  of  the  advancing 
wheels.  And  then,  as  with  the  quick  thought  of  a 
little  mother,  she  planted  them  in  the  one  possible 
spot  of  safety  there, — close  up  against  the  sunk 
breast  of  the  platform,  between  the  platform  and 
the  rails.  She  put  the  children  inside.  And  she 
covered  them  with  her  own  body, — standing  like  a 
wall  between  them  and  death.  They  were  saved. 
She  was  killed.  The  pleasant  thing  for  Margaret 
Wilson  would  have  been  to  have  got  on  the  plat- 
form herself.  The  right  thing  was  to  save  the 
children  who  had  been  put  in  her  care.  She  put 
right  thing  first.  She  was  killed.  But  it  was  a 
Christ-like  deed  she  did  that  day.  Although  it  was 
done  by  a  little  nurse  girl,  an  angel  could  not  have 
done  it  better.     She  saved  the  children  whom  it 


100  The  Gentle  Heart. 

was  her  duty  to  save  :   that  was  her  glory.      In 

domg  that,  she  had  to  die.     But  she  died  putting 

the  right  thing  first.     No  wonder  the  poet,  who 

has  hfted  her  story  into  song,  ends  his  ballad  with 

this  burst  of  praise  : 

"  My  little  heroine  !     Though  I  ne'er 
Can  look  upon  thy  features  fair, 
Nor  kiss  the  lips  that  mangled  were ; 

"  Yet  thy  true  heart,  and  loving  faith. 
And  agony  of  martyr  death 
God  saw — and  He  remembereth."  * 

*  F.  T.  Palgrave. 


ON  GIVING  PLEASURE    TO   GOD, 


ON  GIVING  PLEASURE  TO  GOD. 


AT  the  beginning  of  a  new  year  it  is  good  to 
ask,  whether  there  is  any  thought  we  can 
receive  into  our  hearts  which  will  help  us  to  lead 
better  lives  than  we  lived  before. 

There  is  one  thought  which  very  few  have 
opened  their  hearts  to,  which  yet  is  one  of  the  best 
thoughts  we  can  think.  It  is  the  thought  that  we 
have  been  made,  and  are  kept  in  life,  that  we 
should  give  pleasure  to  God. 

It  will  make  a  great  difference  in  our  lives  when, 
instead  of  doing  things  to  please  ourselves,  or  our 
companions,  we  do  everything  to  please  God. 

I  once  read  a  poem,  by  Mary  Howitt,  in  which 
this  good  thought  is  put  into  the  lips  of  a  very 
little  child.  He  was  called  Willie.  One  day 
Willie's  mamma  saw  him  sitting  very  silent  in  the 
sunlight,   with   all  the  men    and  women  and  the 


1 04  The  Gentle  Heart. 

beasts  and  birds  of  his  Noah's  ark  set  out  in  a  row. 
"  What  are  you  thinking  about,  Willie  ?  "  said  his 
mamma.     Willie  answering,  said  : 

"You  know  that  God  loves  little  children, 

And  likes  them  to  love  Him  the  same  ; 
So  I've  set  out  my  Noah's  Ark  creatures, 

The  great  savage  beasts  and  the  tame, — 
I've  set  them  all  out  in  the  sunshine. 

Where  I  think  they  are  plainest  to  see, 
Because  I  would  give  Him  some  pleasure 

Who  gives  so  much  pleasure  to  me." 

It  is  true  that  it  is  only  a  very  little  child  who 
would  think  of  giving  God  pleasure  in  that  way. 
But  although  the  way  of  doing  the  good  thing  is 
a  little  child's  way,  the  thing  itself  is  good  to  do. 

It  is  good  for  everybody  to  try  to  give  God 
pleasure. 

There  was  a  great  prophet  in  the  world  once, 
in  the  days  before  the  ark,  who  tried  to  do  this, 
and  who  did  it  all  the  days  of  his  life.  It  was  the 
prophet  Enoch.  At  the  end  of  his  life,  the  story 
of  his  life  told  by  God  Himself  was  this  :  "  He 
pleased  God."  Not  himself,  not  his  friends,  but 
God.  I  have  tried  to  see  what  it  was  in  his  life 
that  gave  pleasure  to  God,  and  I  find  it  was  this, 
that  "  He  walked  with  God."    Now  you  know  why 


On  Giving  Pleasure  to  God.  105 

it  is  you  walk  with  some  young  people  and  not 
with  others.  It  is  because  you  know  them  and 
love  them,  and  know  that  they  love  you.  Enoch 
knew  all  that  about  God.  He  knew  that  God 
loved  him  and  he  loved  to  be  in  God's  company, 
and  to  have  God  near  to  him  in  everything  he 
did.  "  He  walked  with  God : "  in  the  very  way 
God  walked — the  way  of  truth  and  right.  "  He 
walked  with  God  :  "  he  had  God  for  his  friend,  and 
told  Him  by  prayer  all  that  was  in  his  heart.  "  He 
walked  with  God  : "  he  went  about  with  God  doing 
good,  helping  the  helpless  and  trying  to  bring 
people  to  God.  Every  day  he  would  say  to  him- 
self, "  How  can  I  please  God  to-day  ?  "  And  day 
by  day,  he  kept  doing  the  will  of  God,  and  walking 
out  and  in  with  God  for  his  friend. 

But  there  was  a  greater  than  Enoch  who  pleased 
God.  You  remember  this  is  the  very  thing  which 
the  voice  from  heaven  said  of  Jesus  :  ''This  is  My 
beloved  Son  in  whom  I  am  well  pleased."  And 
God  was  well  pleased  with  Jesus.  He  began  to 
be  pleased  with  Him  even  when  He  was  a  child. 
It  is  said  that  Jesus,  when  He  was  a  little  boy 
at  Nazareth,  "  grew  in  favour  both  with  God  and 
man."  Could  anything  better  ever  be  said  of  a 
child's   life  ?     To   be    in   favour   with   God !     To 


io6  The  Gentle  Heart. 

have  God  well  pleased  with  you  !  That  is  to  be 
like  Jesus  Himself.  And  you  may  really  be  like 
Jesus  in  this  very  thing  if  you  do  as  He  did.  He 
set  Himself  so  to  give  pleasure  to  God  that  it 
became  His  meat  and  His  drink  to  do  God's  will. 

A  little  girl  came  one  day  to  the  late  Charles 
Kingsley,  and  said:  "Dear  Mr.  Kingsley  give  me 
a  song."  And  Mr.  Kingsley,  who  had  a  great  love 
for  children,  wrote  this  song  for  her : — 

*'Be  good,  sweet  maid,  and  let  who  will  be  clever  ; 
Do  noble  things,  not  dream  them,  all  day  long  ; 
And  so  make  life,  death,  and  that  vast  forever. 
One  grand,  sweet  song." 

It  is  a  great  pleasure  to  God  when  His  children 
do  noble  things.  But  I  wonder  if  the  little  girl 
for  whom  this  song  was  written,  knew — I  wonder 
if  you  know— what  the  noblest  thing  ever  done  on 
this  earth  was  !  It  was  dying  on  a  cross.  It  was 
Jesus  laying  down  His  life  to  save  the  world. 
Nothing  else  gave  such  pleasure  to  God  as  this. 
Jesus  died  to  let  God's  love  be  known.  He  died 
that  this  love  might  shine  in  upon  sad  hearts  and 
sorrow-filled  homes;  and  that  the  poor,  and  the 
heavy  laden,  and  those  who  are  out  of  the  right 
way,  like  the  prodigal  in  the  parable,  might  be 
drawn  by  it  to  God. 


On  Giving  Pleasure  to  God.         107 

To  help  children  to  be  like  Jesus  in  this,  some 
things  are  mentioned  in  the  Bible  which  give 
pleasure  to  God.  It  is  a  great  pleasure  to  Him 
to  see  His  children  sharing  the  good  things  He 
has  given  them, — food,  or  clothes,  or  knowledge, 
or  happiness, — with  those  who  have  none.  That 
was  the  kind  of  sacrifice  which  Jesus  made.  He 
gave  up  the  life  which  His  Father  had  given 
Him,  that  all  the  world  might  share  it.  With 
such  sacrifices  God  is  well  pleased.  It  is  a  great 
pleasure  to  God,  also,  when  children  honour  and 
obey  their  parents.  Jesus  did  that.  One  of  His 
last  thoughts  on  the  cross  was  to  make  provision 
for  the  honour  and  welfare  of  His  mother  Mary 
when  He  was  gone.  But  the  greatest  thing  of  all 
in  giving  pleasure  to  God  is  love.  It  is  impossible 
to  please  Him  unless  there  be  some  knowledge  of 
His  love  in  our  hearts,  and  some  love  to  Him  in 
return.  The  heart  of  Jesus  was  filled  with  both 
that  knowledge  and  this  love.  And  all  who  wish 
to  please  God  as  Jesus  did,  and  know  these  ways 
of  doing  it,  will  earnestly  try  to  follow  them. 

But  this  leads  me  to  tell  you  what  is  the  first 
way  of  coming  into  this  life  of  giving  pleasure  to 
God.  It  is  a  way  so  simple  that  a  very  little 
child  can  understand  it.      It  is  just  letting  God 


io8  The  Gentle  Heart. 


please  you.  Yes,  that  was  the  secret  of  the  life 
which  the  Lord  Jesus  Hved.  He  began  by  letting 
His  Father  in  heaven  please  Him.  The  desire  of 
God  is  to  give  pleasure  to  His  children.  There  is 
a  psalm  which  speaks  of  God's  ways  with  His  chil- 
dren, where  it  is  said :  "  Thou  shalt  make  them 
drink  out  of  the  river  of  Thy  pleasures."  And 
God  sets  Himself  to  give  us  this  very  pleasure. 
He  gives  us  the  very  things  to  be  pleased  with 
which  please  Himself: — the  river  of  His  own 
pleasures.  This  is  the  river  of  which  it  is  said  in 
another  psalm  "  it  maketh  glad  the  city  of  God." 
And  this  river  which  maketh  glad  the  city  of  God, 
and  is  the  river  of  God's  own  pleasures, — is  nothing 
other  than  the  love  which  is  in  Jesus  Christ,  which 
brought  Him  to  die  for  us,  and  with  which  God  is 
ever  well  pleased.  This  is  the  way  in  which  God 
works  when  He  is  working  in  us  to  bring  us  to  will 
and  to  do  His  good  pleasure.  He  begins  by  get- 
ting us  to  be  pleased  with  the  Son  in  whom  He 
Himself  is  pleased.  It  is  the  same  as  if  He  said, 
"See,  this  is  He  on  whom  My  love  is  ever  resting, 
in  whom  I  have  endless  joy.  Take  pleasure  in 
Him."  And  whoever  is  brought  by  God's  great 
kindness,  to  be  pleased  with  Jesus  and  with  the 
things   in   Him  with  which  God  is  pleased — and 


On  Giving  Pleasure  to  God.         109 


these  things  are  love  and  mercy  and  truth — begins 
in  that  very  pleasure  to  give  pleasure  to  God. 

To  be  pleased  with  Jesus  is  a  child's  first  step 
in  the  life  of  giving  pleasure  to  God. 

Now  I  give  you  this  good  thought.  I  ask  you 
to  admit  it  into  your  hearts.  I  advise  you  to  take 
it  for  the  rule  of  your  lives.  Say  in  your  own 
heart  to  God,  "  O  my  Father,  from  this  time  forth 
I  will  try  to  give  pleasure  to  Thee." 

In  the  fairy  stories,  the  young  prince  or  princess 
who  is  setting  out  in  the  world  always  meets  a  kind 
fairy  who  gives  a  cap,  or  a  ring,  or  a  flower,  or  a 
ball,  which  must  never  be  let  go  or  lost,  and  it 
will  be  help  by  the  way.  But  this  which  I  am 
offering  you  is  a  better  gift  than  any  fairy  could 
give.  This  will  be  better  than  wishing-cap,  or 
ring,  better  than  gold  or  silver.  The  child  who 
shall  say,  "  I  will  from  this  day  live  to  please  God," 
will  live  a  happy,  good  Hfe.  And  at  the  end,  God 
will  tell  the  same  thing  about  the  life  of  that  child 
as  He  told  about  Enoch's  and  Christ's.  He  will 
say,  *'  I  have  been  well  pleased  with  this  child. 


NICOLAS  HERMAN. 


NICOLAS  HERMAxN. 


ABOUT  two  hundred  years  ago  there  was 
living  in  the  city  of  Paris  an  old  man  who 
was  so  holy,  and  in  his  holiness  so  happy,  that 
people  came  to  him  from  far  and  near  to  learn 
the  secret  of  his  life. 

He  lived  in  a  great  house  with  a  company 
of  religious  men.  Among  those  men  his  place 
was  a  very  lowly  one.  He  was  their  cook,  and 
it  was  down  in  the  kitchen  of  their  great  house 
that  he  had  to  spend  his  days. 

For  more  than  forty  years  this  man  lived  in 
that  house  doing  this  lo\vly  service.  And  through 
all  those  years,  the  one  desire  and  joy  of  his 
heart  was  to  be  always  with  God,  and  to  do 
nothing,  say  nothing,  and  think  nothing  which 
might  be  displeasing  to  Him. 


114  The  Gentle  Heart. 


His  name  in  his  youth  was  Nicolas  Herman, 
but  in  his  old  age,  Brother  Lawrence.  He  was 
born  in  Lorraine  near  the  beginning  of  the  seven- 
teenth century.  His  parents  were  too  poor  to 
give  him  much  schooling,  and  although,  in  some 
way  or  other,  he  learned  to  read,  and  in  his  old 
age  could  write  a  sensible  letter,  he  remained 
through  life  without  the  learning  which  you  to 
whom  I  am  speaking  receive  at  school. 

As  a  boy  he  was  very  uncouth  and  very  stupid. 
He  was  always  doing  awkward  things.  Nobody 
who  saw  him  then  could  have  foretold  that  he 
would  one  day  cease  to  be  awkward  and  become 
careful  and  wise  and  helpful.  It  is  only  God 
who  can  tell  from  the  outside  of  a  boy  what  sort 
of  man  he  will  become. 

But  although  Nicolas  was  poor  and  unlearned, 
and  in  all  his  movements  ungainly  and  awkward, 
he  had,  even  as  a  boy,  a  gentle  heart.  And  one 
day  this  gentleness  showed  itself  in  a  very  wonder- 
ful way.  It  was  a  day  in  winter.  Everything  was 
cold  and  bleak  and  bare.  On  this  particular 
day  Nicolas  walking  about,  happened  to  come 
upon  a  tree  that  was  leafless.  Something  drew 
him  to  look  at  the  tree,  and  as  he  stood  before  it, 
ooking,  the  thought  came  into  his  mind  that  that 


Nicolas  Hcrmaji.  115 

very  tree,  bare  and  dead  though  it  seemed  at 
the  time,  would  soon  be  all  covered  with  leaves, 
with  bloom,  and  by-and-by  with  fruit.  And  there 
came  to  him,  in  the  very  heart  of  this  thought, 
the  thought  of  God.  He  seemed  to  see  at  a 
glance  that  before  all  these  changes  could  take 
place,  God  must  be  present  to  work  them.  Only 
God,  working  on  the  very  spot,  could  bring  back 
life  to  the  dead  tree.  His  soul  at  that  moment 
caught  sight  of  the  great  truth  that  God  is  every- 
where present.  He  said  to  himself,  "  He  is  here, 
on  this  very  spot."  He  learned  that  day,  that 
God  was  not  a  God  far  off,  but  near.  He  was 
so  near  that  He  would  be  present  to  cover  that 
tree  once  more  with  leaves.  Standing  before  that 
tree,  he  saw  that  he  was  standing  in  the  very 
presence  of  God.  This  nearness  and  presence  of 
God  became  one  of  the  thoughts  of  his  soul. 

In  a  dim  way  at  first,  no  doubt,  but  more  and 
more  clearly  as  years  went  on,  he  saw  God  every- 
where. From  that  day  onward  he  lived  as  one 
who  had  been  admitted,  for  one  happy  moment 
at  least,  into  the  presence  of  God.  And  I  like 
to  think,  that  as  he  turned  his  steps  homeward 
that  day,  the  poor,  untaught,  and  awkward  boy, 
whom  everybody  was  already  trying  to  scold  ijito 


Ii6  The  Gentle  Heart. 


less  stupid  ways,  may  have  carried  this  new 
thought  hke  a  new  joy  in  his  heart,  and  said  to 
himself,  "Poor  and  stupid  though  I  be,  God  is 
near  me;  and  lowly  though  my  father's  cot  is, 
God  is  there." 

This  was  the  beginning  of  religion  in  his  life, 
but  not  yet  of  happiness.  Nicolas  had  a  long  way 
to  go  and  many  things  to  learn  and  suffer  before 
the  happy  years  of  his  life  began.  A  blessed 
thought  had  been  dropped  by  the  Holy  Spirit 
into  his  soul.  But  it  was  as  yet  like  a  tiny  seed 
which  has  neither  root  nor  stem.  The  happiness 
which  is  in  a  holy  life  does  not  spring  up  in  a 
day.  Sometimes  it  takes  years  to  grow,  and  often 
it  has  to  be  watered  by  our  tears.  At  any  rate, 
that  was  the  case  with  Nicolas  Herman.  He  was 
like  the  man  spoken  of  in  one  of  the  psalms,  who 
went  forth  weeping  bearing  precious  seed.  But 
it  was  to  be  a  long  time  before  he  came  back 
rejoicing  with  the  fruit. 

He  was  only  eighteen  years  of  age  when  he 
saw  the  vision  of  God's  presence  in  the  tree. 
After  that,  he  had  to  become  a  soldier ;  and 
when  he  was  set  free  from  being  a  soldier,  he 
became  a  footman  in  a  private  family.  He  was 
still  unhandy  in  his  ways.      His   master  said  of 


Nicolas  Herman.  117 

him  that  he  was  a  great  clumsy  fellow,  who  broke 
everything  he  was  set  to  carry. 

IT. 

But  this  was  only  the  outside  of  his  life.  All 
this  awkwardness  and  stupidity,  this  want  of 
handiness  in  doing  things,  was  a  sincere  grief  to 
Nicolas.  He  did  earnestly  wish  to  have  his 
faults  corrected.  He  was  willing  to  submit  to  any 
suffering  by  which  his  awkwardness  should  be  put 
away.  And  now,  being  a  man,  and  being  very 
earnest  about  leading  a  right  life,  he  began  to 
look  about  for  the  best  means  of  having  his  faults 
corrected,  and  he  resolved  at  last  that  he  should 
apply  for  admission  to  the  house  of  the  Barefooted 
Carmelites.  There,  he  thought,  I  shall  be  taken 
to  task,  and  if  I  fail  to  do  well  I  shall  be  punished. 
And  I  am  content  to  be  punished  until  my  faults 
are  removed.  The  brethren  consented  to  receive 
him  into  their  kitchen  and  give  him  work  as  cook. 

Now  it  was  a  custom  with  those  brethren,  before 
receiving  any  new  member  into  their  company, 
to  put  him  upon  trial  for  a  time ;  and  during  that 
time  the  person  wishing  to  become  a  brother  was 
put  under  instruction  for  his  soul.  This  was  a 
very  precious  time  for  Nicolas.     He  got  time  to 


TJie  Goitle  Heart. 


think.  But  this  at  first  brought  him  into  new 
trouble.  When  he  came  to  think  about  himself 
he  found  that  much  more  needed  to  be  put  right 
in  him  besides  his  awkward  ways.  The  thought 
that  he  was  in  God's  presence  led  him  to  ask 
himself  what  sort  of  object  he  must  appear  in  the 
eyes  of  the  holy  God.  And  then  his  heart  sank 
within  him.  He  saw  that  he  was  a  poor  sin-laden 
man,  not  worthy  of  a  single  glance  from  God. 
He  recalled  evil  words  he  had  spoken  and  evil 
deeds  he  had  done,  and  thought  that  God,  as  the 
just  Judge,  could  have  no  choice  but  to  banish 
him  for  ever  from  His  presence. 

III. 

But  by-and-by — his  history  does  not  tell  either 
in  what  manner  or  at  what  precise  time — the  Spirit 
of  God  directed  him  to  look  to  the  Cross  and  the 
blood  of  Jesus.  He  then  saw  that  the  holy  God 
is  a  Saviour  as  much  as  a  Judge,  and  that  He  is 
full  of  love;  that  He  gave  His  son  to  die  for 
sinners,  and  that  there  is  cleansing  for  all  sin  in 
the  blood  which  Jesus  shed.  Nicolas  was  slow 
to  believe  that  there  could  be  cleansing  for  him. 
For  four  long  years  he  feared  that  he  should  be 
shut  out  from  God's  presence  at  last.     And  for  six 


Nicolas  Herman.  119 

years  longer  doubts  of  his  Salvation  came  back 
upon  him  from  time  to  time.  But  all  the  while 
there  was  this  fine  resolution  in  his  heart :  whether 
he  was  to  be  saved,  or  shut  out  from  salvation,  he 
resolved  to  do  the  thing  that  was  right.  "  What- 
ever becomes  of  me,"  he  said,  "  whether  I  be  lost 
or  saved,  I  will  continue  to  act  purely  for  the  love 
of  God.  I  shall  have  this  good  at  least,  that  till 
death  I  shall  have  done  all  that  is  in  me  to  love 
Him." 

Bat  God  did  not  leave  him  in  this  uncertainty. 
He  came  to  his  help,  as  He  always  does  to  those 
who  are  in  earnest  about  their  salvation.  He 
brought  him  out  of  all  his  fears  and  into  perfect 
happiness  and  peace,  and  He  worked  so  great  a 
change  upon  him  also  that  all  his  awkwardness 
came  to  an  end. 

Although  Nicolas  never  ceased  to  think  meanly 
of  himself,  or  to  look  upon  himself  otherwise  than 
as  a  sinner,  his  whole  view  of  God  was  changed. 
Instead  of  seeing  Him  as  a  judge  about  to  punish 
a  criminal  at  his  feet,  he  saw  Him  as  a  gracious 
King  who  had  come  down  from  His  throne  to 
serve  him.  "  This  King,"  he  said,  "  full  of  mercy 
and  goodness,  very  far  from  chastising  me,  em- 
braces me  with  love,  makes  me  eat  at  His  table, 


I20  TJic  Gentle  Heart. 

serves  me  with  His  own  hands,  and  gives  me  the 
key  of  His  treasures." 

IV. 

After  that,  the  principal  thing  in  Herman 
which  helped  him  to  live  a  happy  life,  was  the 
lesson  he  learned  in  his  boyhood,  when  he  stood 
before  the  leafless  tree.  A  thought  entered  his 
soul  that  day  which  never  left  him.  It  was  the 
thought  that  God  is  everywhere  present.  It  was, 
as  I  said  before,  a  very  tiny  thought  for  him  at  the 
first,  a  mere  little  seed  of  thought.  But  when  the 
Holy  Spirit  took  him  in  after-years  and  set  him 
before  the  tree  on  which  the  Lord  Jesus  died,  the 
thought  grew  and  spread  and  filled  his  whole  soul. 
He  saw  then  that  if  God  must  be  joresent  to  cover 
a  dead  tree  with  leaves  and  fruit.  He  must  much 
more  be  present  when  a  dead  soul,  like  his  own, 
was  to  be  changed  into  a  living  one.  A  strong 
feeling  took  possession  of  him  that  he  was  always 
in  the  presence  of  God,  and  a  feeling  not  less 
strong  that  it  was  his  duty  continually  to  remember 
that  fact.  And  to  this  duty  he  set  himself.  Day 
by  day,  and  every  hour  of  the  day,  he  said  to  his 
soul :  "  Soul,  thou  art  in  the  presence  of  God  thy 
King."  At  the  beginning  of  his  religious  life,  he 
spent  the  hours  appointed  for  private  prayer  in 


Nicolas  Herman.  121 

forming  the  habit  of  remembering  this  presence. 
He  strengthened  the  habit  by  thinking  often  of 
God's  goodness  and  mercy  and  nearness.  If 
business  took  his  soul  away  from  the  thought  for  a 
little,  he  sought  a  fresh  remembrance  of  it  from 
God.  At  length  it  came  to  be  natural  to  him  to 
feel  that  he  was  every  moment  in  the  Divine  pre- 
sence. He  was  so  much  under  this  feeling,  that 
his  prayers  were  like  conversations  with  one  who 
was  in  the  same  room  with  him  ;  and  sometimes 
like  a  joyful  sense  of  that  presence,  as  if  his  soul 
were  telling  its  wants  by  simply  looking  into  the 
face  of  God.  At  such  times  he  was  insensible  to 
everything  but  the  love  of  God.  His  highest  joy 
was  to  feel  himself  in  the  presence  of  that  love. 
It  was  a  joy  so  sweet,  that  he  likened  it  to  the  joy 
of  an  infant  at  its  mother's  breast.  Indeed,  he 
seemed  to  himself  sometimes  to  be  just  an  infant 
drinking  happiness  out  of  the  bosom  of  God,  so 
inexpressible  was  the  sweetness  he  tasted  in  the 
presence  of  his  Lord. 

V. 

Another  thing  in  Nicolas  which  made  his  life  a 
liappy  one  was  his  putting  God's  will  always  before 
his  own. 

He  had  set  his  heart  on  being  like  the  Friend  in 


122  TJie  Gentle  Heart. 

whose  presence  he  so  much  loved  to  be.  And  he 
had  learned  that  the  nearest  and  best  way  to  this 
likeness  was  to  let  this  Divine  Friend  rule  him  in 
everything.  So  he  placed  himself  altogether  under 
the  will  of  God.  He  gave  up  everything  to  God, 
that  God  might  be  everything  in  his  life.  He  gave 
himself.  He  gave  body  and  soul.  He  gave  will 
and  wish.     He  kept  nothing  back. 

It  was  not  easy  to  do  this  at  first.  But  he 
prayed  for  help.  And  all  difficulty  came  to  an 
end.  And  it  became  both  easy  and  pleasant,  un- 
til at  last,  next  to  the  joy  of  being  in  the  presence 
of  his  Divine  Friend,  was  the  joy  of  giving  up  every- 
thing for  that  Friend's  sake. 

His  life,  after  that,  was  a  life  of  obedience  to 
God.  At  every  step  in  life,  and  in  all  things—  in 
things  small  as  well  as  great — in  things  painful  as 
well  as  pleasant,  he  said  to  God,  "  Thy  will,  and 
not  mine,  be  done."  He  liked  to  remember  how 
much  God  had  given  up  for  him.  He  liked  to  fill 
his  soul  with  the  thought  that  Jesus  gave  His  life 
to  redeem  him.  And  he  looked  upon  himself,  in 
consequence,  as  one  that  belonged  to  God.  "  I 
am  not  my  own,  but  God's,"  he  said.  "  And  I  will 
think  no  thought,  I  will  speak  no  word,  I  will  do 
no  act  except  as  God  allows  me." 


Nicolas  Herman.  123 

And  this  was  his  life.  His  soul's  ear  was  bent 
to  listen  for  the  commands  of  God.  His  greatest 
joy  was  in  fulfilling  these  commands.  He  would 
do  no  action  and  suffer  no  thought  which  he  knew 
to  be  contrary  to  them.  His  whole  endeavour  was 
to  let  God  work  His  will  in  him.  He  felt  himself 
so  entirely  in  the  hands  of  God,  to  do,  or  to  suffer, 
as  it  might  please  Him,  that  he  sometimes  likened 
himself  to  a  block  of  stone  which  a  sculptor  was 
carving  into  a  statue.  God  who  loved  him  was 
this  sculptor.  And  Nicolas  would  present  himself 
as  such  a  stone  before  God,  and  say,  ''  O  my  Best 
Friend,  my  Maker,  my  Lord,  shape  me  into  Thine 
own  image  :  make  me  entirely  like  Thyself." 

VI. 

A  great  secret  in  the  happiness  of  Nicolas  was 
the  close  connection  he  kept  up  between  his  re- 
ligion and  his  daily  tasks. 

He  took  his  religion  with  him  into  the  kitchen. 
He  could  not  bear  the  error  of  some,  that  religion 
was  only  for  the  church,  and  for  religious  meetings 
Religion  and  business  with  Nicolas  were  not  two 
things,  but  one.  He  did  all  the  work  of  a  cook  as 
the  servant  of  God  and  out  of  love  to  God.  And 
in  the  very  humblest  part  of  his  duties  he  tried  to 


124  TJie  Gentle  Heart. 

give  pleasure  to  God.  Like  the  Apostle,  who  said, 
''  Whether  ye  eat  or  drink,  or  whatsoever  ye  do, 
do  all  to  the  glory  of  God,"  Nicolas  felt  that 
whether  he  was  cooking  in  the  kitchen,  or  worship- 
ping in  a  church,  he  had  all  the  same  to  glorify 
God. 

To  this  old  man  the  kitchen  was  as  holy  a  place 
as  a  church.  He  was  with  God  there  !  Daily  he 
had  sweet  talk  with  Him  as  he  went  about  his 
humble  duties.  And  the  fireside,  with  its  pots  and 
pans,  and  with  its  heats  and  smells,  became  like  a 
gate  of  heaven  unto  his  soul. 

And  this  was  the  more  beautiful  in  him  because 
naturally  he  did  not  like  the  work  of  the  kitchen. 
But  he  put  his  dislike  of  the  work  aside  and  did  it 
joyfully  out  of  love  to  God.  He  began  every  part 
of  his  duties  with  silent  prayer.  As  the  work  went 
forward,  he  would  lift  up  his  heart  again  in  prayer. 
And  when  it  was  finished,  he  would  give  thanks  to 
God  for  helping  him.  Or,  if  he  had  failed,  he 
would  ask  God  to  pardon  him.  In  this  way  his 
distasteful  work  became  a  joy  to  him,  and  easy. 
And  it  was  so  mixed  up  with  prayer  that  his  soul 
was  more  united  to  God  amid  the  tasks  of  the 
kitchen  than  when  he  was  in  his  private  room. 

Nicolas  believed  that  a  holy  life  did  not  depend 


Nicolas  Herman.  125 

upon  finding  some  high  and  heavenly  kind  of  work 
to  do ;  but  in  doing  common  work,  the  work  of 
every  day,  for  the  love  of  God.  It  is  a  holy  life, 
he  held,  to  do  for  God's  sake  the  things  we  com- 
monly do  for  our  own.  He  put  great  stress  on  the 
doing  of  little  things  to  God.  He  used  often  to 
say,  that  Christians  ought  never  to  weary  in  doing 
little  services  for  His  sake.  "  It  is  not  the  great- 
ness of  the  work  which  God  regards,"  he  would  say, 
''it  is  the  love  with  which  it  is  performed." 

A  friend  who  saw  him  at  his  work  in  the  kitchen 
has  borne  witness  how  truly  it  was  v/ork  for  God. 
"  His  very  countenance  was  edifying.  There  was 
such  a  sweet  and  calm  devotion  appearing  in  it 
as  could  not  fail  to  affect  the  beholders.  In  the 
greatest  hurry  he  still  preserved  his  heavenly-mind- 
edness.  He  was  never  hasty  nor  loitering,  but 
did  each  thing  in  its  season,  with  an  even  uninter- 
rupted composure  and  tranquillity  of  spirit." 

Nicolas  himself  said,  "  The  time  of  business  does 
not  with  me  differ  from  the  time  of  prayer ;  and  in 
the  noise  and  clatter  of  my  kitchen,  while  several 
persons  are  at  the  same  time  cahing  for  different 
things,  I  possess  God  in  as  great  tranquillity  as  if 
I  were  upon  my  knees  at  the  blessed  sacrament." 


126  The  Gentle  Heart. 

VII. 

There  were  many  other  tilings  in  this  life  which 
helped  to  make  it  a  happy  one,  which  I  should  be 
glad  to  tell  about,  but  I  must  content  myself  with 
one  more. 

Nicolas  had  such  perfect  faith  in  God  that  when 
he  brought  any  difficulty  before  Him  in  prayer, 
when  he  came  with  some  burden,  or  sorrow,  or 
care,  he  really  left  it  with  God.  After  laying  it  on 
God,  he  did  not  suffer  it  to  trouble  him  more. 
And  it  was  the  same  with  his  sins.  When  he  had 
once  asked  God  to  forgive  him  for  some  particular 
sin,  he  left  the  sin  with  God,  and  believed  that  he 
was  forgiven,  and  went  on  to  do  the  next  duty  on 
his  path.  In  this  way,  he  had  an  almost  unbroken 
peace  and  joy  of  mind. 

To  people  who  came  to  ask  him  about  the  way 
of  happiness,  he  was  accustomed  to  say:  "Keep 
the  thought  of  the  Presence  of  God  ever  in  your 
hearts ;  and  give  yourselves  entirely  to  the  study 
of  His  love,  and  you  will  come  to  perfect  happiness. 
The  more  you  know  of  His  love,  the  more  you  will 
wish  to  know ;  and  the  greater  your  knowledge 
is,  so  much  deeper  will  be  your  love,  and  so  much 
greater  your  desire  to  be  continually  in  His  com- 
pany.    Cast  everything  out  of  your  hearts,  that 


Nicolas  Herman. 


God  may  have  the  whole  room  to  Himself.  And 
when  God  has  taken  up  His  abode  there,  trust 
Him  in  everything  to  the  end  of  your  lives." 

Writing  some  advices  of  this  sort  when  he  was 
about  eighty  years  of  age,  he  added,  "  I  hope 
from  God's  mercy  the  favour  to  see  Him  in  a  few 
days."  And  within  a  few  days  he  went  home  to 
be  with  God  for  ever. 


.^,^:5 


GOD'S   THOUGHTS  ABOUT  LIT7LE 
PEOPLE. 


GOD'S  THOUGHTS  ABOUT  LITTLE 
PEOPLE. 


THE  story  of  Naaman  the  Syrian  is  one  of 
many  stories  in  the  Bible  which  show  us 
the  thoughts  of  God  about  little  people. 

Perhaps  everybody  in  Syria,  certainly  everybody 
in  Naaman's  house,  thought  Naaman's  wife,  or 
Naaman  himself,  the  greatest  person  of  the  house. 
But  in  the  sight  of  God,  the  greatest  person  v\^as 
the  little  captive  out  of  the  land  of  Israel,  the  little 
maid  who  waited  on  Naaman's  wife. 

God  needed  some  one  to  remember  Him  in 
Syria,  and  to  speak  for  Him  in  Naaman's  house. 
Naaman  could  not  do  it.  He  did  not  know 
God.  He  knew  the  King  of  Syria  and  the  king's 
captains,  and  the  king's  fighting  men  ;  and  he 
knew  all  about  swords  and  shields,  and  bows  and 
arrows,  and  battles.     But  he  knew  nothing  a.bout 


132  The  Gentle  Heart. 

God.  No  more  did  the  great  lady  who  was  his 
wife.  He  and  she  were  mighty  people  in  the 
land,  but  they  were  poor  heathens  all  the  same, 
and  did  not  know  God.  But  the  little  maid  who 
served  in  their  house  knew  Him.  She  knew  more 
than  the  mighty  man  her  master  did,  more  than 
the  lady  she  waited  on  did.  She  knew  God. 
She  was  only  a  little  girl,  a  mere  servant,  and  a 
slave  besides — one  of  the  poorest  saddest  kinds  oi 
servants — but  it  was  she  and  not  any  of  the  great 
people^she  and  no  one  else  in  all  that  Syrian 
land — whom  God  chose  to  remember  Him.  Of 
this  poor,  humble  slave  girl  He  said  :  "  This  child 
shall  be  My  greatest  here.  She  shall  speak  for  Me 
in  this  heathen  land,  and  tell  of  My  power  and 
My  love." 

II. 
The  next  thing  this  story  shows  is,  that  it  was 
not  because  this  poor  girl  was  little,  or  because 
she  waited  on  Naaman's  wife,  or  because  she  had 
been  brought  away  captive  out  of  the  land  of 
Israel,  that  God  chose  her  to  be  His  greatest 
servant  in  Syria  and  to  speak  for  Him  in  Naaman's 
house.  It  was  because  she  only  in  all  that  land 
knew  God  and  was  able  to  tell  of  His  power  and 
His  love. 


God's   Thoughts  about  Little  People.   133 

God  does  not  choose  people  for  His  great 
places  because  of  outside  things,  but  only  and 
always  because  there  is  knowledge  of  Him  and 
love  to  Him  in  the  heart.  Big  bulk  or  little  bulk, 
riches  or  poverty,  palace  or  hovel, — God  passes 
these  things  and  things  like  these  by.  He  searches 
for  knowledge  of  Himself,  for  love  to  Himself,  and 
where  He  finds  these,  in  high  or  low,  in  bond  or 
free.  He  makes  His  choice.  If  He  finds  these 
in  a  hovel,  and  in  the  poorest  form  on  earth,  or  in 
a  child,  even  if  that  child  should  be  a  slave,  and 
one  who  is  counted  nobody  in  the  house  she 
serves.  He  will  not  pass  by.  His  choice  will  rest 
there.  He  will  lift  up  that  little  child,  that  slave 
who  is  nobody  in  the  house,  and  give  her  a  place 
beside  Himself,  and  say  to  her :  "  Thou  shalt 
speak  here  for  Me." 

It  was  because  this  little  captive  out  of  the  land 
of  Israel  knew  God,  and  alone  in  all  Syria  knew 
Him,  and  because  she  loved  Him  and  was  good,  for 
this  reason,  and  for  no  other,  God  chose  her  to  be  a 
speaker  for  Him. 

III. 

The  third  thing  this  story  helps  us  to  understand 
is,  that  if  the  little  captive  out  of  the  land  of  Israel 
knew  God  better  and  loved  Him  better  than  any- 


134  The  Gentle  Heart. 

body  in  Syria,  it  was  because  she  had  been  taught 
to  do  that  before. 

Knowledge  of  God  does  not  grow  up  in  the 
heart,  any  more  than  knowledge  of  stars  or  trees 
or  books.  Just  like  other  lessons,  it  has  to  be 
learned  and  got  by  heart.  And  once  on  a  time, 
on  her  mother's  knee,  or  at  school,  in  happier 
days,  this  little  captive  had  had  to  learn  this  lesson. 
And  not  once  but  many  times  she  had  to  learn 
it,  and  to  set  her  whole  heart  on  learning  it.  And 
not  once  but  many  times  she  had  to  answer  when 
her  mother  or  her  teacher  tried  her  to  see  if  she 
had  learned  aright.  And  being  in  those  days  a 
mere  child,  I  dare  say,  sometimes,  when  she  heard 
her  companions  shouting  outside  at  their  play,  her 
eyes  would  fill  with  tears,  and  she  would  say  to 
herself :  "  It  is  so  tiresome  to  be  learning  lessons." 
But  now  her  life  is  all  changed.  She  looks  back 
to  those  days  as  the  happy  days  of  her  life.  Now 
also  she  sees  the  good,  which  then  she  did  not 
see.  And  now,  with  tears  of  a  different  kind  in 
her  eyes,  she  thinks  thankfully  of  the  dear  father 
and  mother  who  kept  her  at  her  lessons  and 
taught  her  concerning  God. 

And,  although  this  thought  never  came  into  her 
mind,  although  she  never  dreamed  when  she  was 


God's  Thoughts  about  Little  People.   135 

telling  her  mistress  of  Samaria  and  the  prophet 
there  that  she  was  doing  anything  great  or  good, 
it  was  because,  in  the  happy  years  of  her  life,  she 
had  been  taught  to  know  God  and  love  Him,  that 
God,  in  her  sad  years,  put  this  crown  on  her  life 
and  made  her  a  speaker  for  Him. 

IV. 

By  this  story  we  may  learn  next  some  of  the 
reasons  which  God  has  for  sending  trouble  to 
children. 

Unless  this  little  maid  had  suffered,  she  could 
not  have  been  just  where  God  wanted  her  to  be, 
when  she  was  needed  to  speak  for  Him.  She 
suffered  things  the  very  hardest  to  bear  which  a 
child  can  suffer.  Only  a  few  years  back — perhaps 
only  a  few  months  back — she  was  a  happy  little 
girl  in  one  of  the  homes  in  Israel.  The  land  of 
Syria,  where  she  now  was,  joins  on  to  the  land 
where  she  was  born.  As  she  went  out  with  her 
mistress  along  the  Syrian  roads  she  could  see  the 
hills  of  her  native  land.  Yes  !  on  those  very 
hills,  bkie  in  the  distance,  lie  the  ruins  of  her  once 
happy  home.  As  she  casts  her  eyes  that  way  the 
vision  of  the  cottage  on  the  hill-side  comes  back 
into  her  heart,  and  the  faces  and  forms  of  the  dear 


136  The  Gentle  Heart. 

ones  who  loved  her  there.  Father,  mother,  sisters, 
brothers,  she  sees  them  all  again,  she  hears  their 
voices,  she  joins  with  them  in  the  morning  and 
evening  psalm.  And  then  that  vision  passes,  and 
another  comes  into  its  place,  and  it  is  night,  and 
there  is  a  sudden  tumult  on  the  hill.  A  storm  of 
wild  shouting  rouses  them  all  out  of  sleep.  The 
door  is  burst  open.  Fierce  soldiers  burst  in.  She 
sees  the  blood  on  her  father's  face  from  his  death 
wound.  She  sees  her  mother  tied  with  ropes  and 
led  away  to  be  sold ;  and  all  the  children  led  out, 
and  all  separated ;  and  she  is  an  orphan  and  a 
slave ;  and  hfe  has  changed  for  her  and  for  them 
for  evermore. 

If,  when  all  that  horror  fell  into  her  young  life, 
she  thought  of  God  and  of  the  Divine  love  her 
father  and  mother  trusted  in,  it  must  have  seemed 
a  great  darkness  to  her.  Could  God  love  them 
and  suffer  such  misery  to  fall  upon  them  ?  And 
what  could  God's  thoughts  concerning  herself  be 
when  He  suffered  her  to  be  carried  away  captive 
out  of  the  land  of  Israel  ? 

If  such  thoughts  came  into  her  mind  at  the  time 
of  her  suffering,  the  explanation  of  them  comes 
now.  Now  she  learned  why  she  had  to  pass 
through  so  much.      By  the  steps  of  sorrow  and 


God's  TJioiigJUs  about  Little  People.   137 

bereavement  she  was  led  to  Naaman's  house,  and 
to  the  daily  spectacle  of  his  leprosy,  and  into  the 
confidence  of  the  lady  she  served,  and  to  a 
moment  when  she  pitied  her  master  with  the  pity 
of  God  that  was  in  her  heart,  and  to  another 
moment  when  she  told  of  the  prophet  who  could 
heal  her  master,  and  last  of  all,  to  the  happy 
day  when  she  saw  him  returning  from  that  prophet, 
after  his  flesh  had  come  to  him  again  "  like  unto 
the  flesh  of  a  little  child." 

And  more  than  all  that,  although  she  herself 
could  never  know  this,  through  the  tribulations  she 
sufl"ered  she  passed  up  to  a  place  among  God's 
throned  ones — ^among  the  saintly  women  and  holy 
men  who  spake  and  acted  for  Him  in  the  days 
of  old.  And  although  we  do  not  know  her  name, 
God  knows  it,  and  the  holy  angels  know  it,  and 
one  day  we  too  shall  know  it. 

V. 

Now,  although  I  have  tried  to  mix  up  the 
lessons  with  the  story  itself,  there  are  three  which 
I  should  like  to  put  a  special  mark  on,  because 
they  are  lessons  which  it  is  good  for  children 
to  get  by  heart. 

The  first  is,  that  you  should  not  despise  ser- 
vants.    Perhaps  God  has  sent  one  of  His  angels, 


13S  The  Gentle  Heart. 

or  helpers,  in  the  form  of  a  servant  into  your 
home,  as  He  sent  the  little  maid  from  Israel  into 
Naaman's. 

The  next  is,  that  you  should  not  weary  over 
the  lessons  you  have  to  learn  at  school.  You 
never  can  know  till  long  after — and  this  little  maid 
from  Israel  did  not  know  till  long  after — the  good 
which  lessons — especially  lessons  about  God — ■ 
will  bring  to  those  who  have  learned  them  well. 

And  the  last  is,  that  you  should  not  look 
upon  sickness  and  bereavement  as  altogether  evil. 
There  is  good  in  the  heart  of  the  evil.  Often 
they  are  messengers  sent  from  God  to  draw  you 
nearer  to  His  heart.  It  is  a  trial  very  hard  to 
bear  when  God  takes  father  or  mother  away. 
And  the  home  is  very  dark  when  He  takes  both. 
But  for  children  to  whom  this  trial  is  sent,  as  for 
the  child  who  had  been  carried  away  captive  out 
of  the  land  of  Israel,  God's  purpose  is  love.  By 
the  very  things  they  suffer  they  may  be  prepared, 
as  this  little  captive  was,  to  be  helpers  of  others 
who  suffer,  and  in  the  end  to  bring  them,  as  she 
brought  Naaman,  to  God. 


THE  PATIENCE  OF  MARGARET  HOPE. 


THE    PATIENCE    OF   MARGARET    HOPE. 


WHEN  cholera  came  the  second  time  to 
this  country,  a  poor  young  lass  in  a 
Scottish  village  was  beginning  to  learn  the  great- 
ness of  God's  love  for  His  people.  But  there  was 
one  thing  she  saw  caused  her  to  fall  into  great 
trouble  of  soul.  She  saw  that  the  terrible  sickness 
made  no  difference  between  the  good  and  the 
bad.  It  even  sometimes  passed  the  doors  of 
people  notorious  for  their  evil  lives  and  entered 
those  of  the  best-living  servants  of  God. 

She  would  not  have  been  surprised  if  any  night 
the  sickness  had  come  to  herself.  She  had  not 
yet  learned  to  think  of  herself  as  one  whom  Jesus 
loved.  What  troubled  her  was,  that  the  sickness 
fell  on  homes  which  she  had  all  her  days  looked 
upon  as  protected  by  His  love, 

Her    trouble    took   its   rise   in   the   niqety-first 


142  The  Gentle  Heart. 

psalm,  the  psalm  which  the  Tempter  quoted  when 
he  wanted  the  Saviour  to  cast  Himself  down  from 
a  pinnacle  of  the  Temple.  In  that  psalm,  when 
a  little  girl  at  school,  she  had  learnt  by  heart  these 
words  : — 

' '  No  plague  shall  near  thy  dwelling  come, 
No  ill  shall  thee  befall ; 
For  thee  to  keep  in  all  thy  ways 
His  angels  charge  He  shall." 

And  through  all  the  years  which  had  gone  over 
her  since,  she  had  believed  that  these  words  were 
a  promise  which  the  faithful  Saviour  would  be 
sure  to  fulfil.  Yet  now  a  time  had  come  to  her 
native  village  in  which  fulfilment  of  this  promise 
might  be  looked  for ;  and  there  was  no  fulfilment 
of  it. 

She  said  to  her  soul :  "  Soul,  has  God  forgotten 
His  promise  ?  Or,  are  those  on  whom  the  plague 
has  fallen  not  His  people  ?  Or,  are  the  words 
mere  words  and  no  promise?  Or,  is  it  I  who 
am  ignorant  and  have  not  yet  learned  what  they 
mean  ? "  And  her  soul  repHed  :  "  Margaret, 
Margaret  Hope,  art  thou  not  as  yet  a  mere  child 
in  the  Scriptures ;  and  dost  thou  dare  to  ask 
of  its  words,  if  they  are  mere  words  and  no  pro- 
mise ?  " 


The  Patience  of  Margaret  Hope.     143 

At  that,  a  great  silence  fell  upon  Margaret's 
soul.  And  she  took  up  her  Bible  and  the  psalm 
which  had  plunged  her  into  trouble,  and  began 
to  read,  and  think,  and  pray,  and  to  sit  like  a 
child  at  the  feet  of  God,  until  He  should  be 
pleased  to  give  her  the  right  understanding  of  the 
words. 

For  fourteen  days,  almost  day  and  night,  taking 
little  sleep,  eating  little  food,  her  soul  sat  in  this 
silence,  in  this  search  for  God's  meaning,  at  the 
feet  of  God.  Do  not  smile  at  her,  you  who  have 
had  parents  or  teachers  to  tell  you  the  m.eaning 
as  you  read  :  you  who  see  the  meaning  all  clear. 
She  had  no  parent,  no  teacher,  no  help  from 
man.  She  was  in  darkness  and  had  to  work 
her  own  way  through  the  darkness  to  the  truth. 
But  she  bent  herself  with  all  her  young  strength 
and  heart  to  find  the  truth.  Verse  by  verse,  word 
by  word,  poring  over  each,  praying  over  each, 
she  read.  It  seemed  so  plain,  so  clear  :  "  There 
shall  no  evil  befall  thee,  neither  shall  any 
plague  come  nigh  thy  dwelling,"  that  she  was 
sometimes  in  despair  of  ever  seeing  anything  else 
in  the  words.  Then  she  would  read  the  psalm 
from  beginning  to  end  :  then  she  would  compare 
it  with  other  psalms  and  other  passages  of  Scrip- 


144  The  Gentle  Heart. 

tLire.  And  still  no  light  came  to  her.  There 
was  the  promise — clear  as  a  sunbeam  :  "  Neither 
shall  any  plague  come  nigh  thy  dwelling;"  and 
there,  outside,  at  that  very  moment,  was  a  real 
plague  wrapping  the  dwellings  of  God's  people 
round  and  round  with  the  fog  of  death. 

At  length,  however,  light  began  to  dawn  upon 
her,  but  in  a  strange,  unlooked-for  way.  An  as- 
surance fell  upon  her  soul  and  spread  gently  over 
it,  that  although  she  might  never  come  to  see  the 
real  meaning,  the  words  were  God's  ;  and,  in  His 
good  time,  if  not  here  in  this  world,  then  in  the 
next.  He  would  make  their  meaning  plain  to  her. 
And  she  was  thanking  God  for  this,  and  was 
about  to  close  the  Bible  for  the  night  and  rest  in 
what  she  had  come  to,  when  her  eye  caught  the 
first  words  of  the  previous  psalm — the  ninetieth— 
and  in  a  moment  the  whole  rich  meaning  of  the 
ninety-first  flashed  into  her  soul  and  through  and 
through  her  like  a  sudden  burst  of  morning  light. 
"  Lord,  Thou  hast  been  a  dwelling-place  in  all 
generations."  Thou  !  God  Himself.  This, — not 
the  house  in  the  city,  or  the  village,  but  God 
Himself,  —  was  the  dwelling  which  no  plague 
could  enter,  which  no  evil  could  touch.  The 
great  dark  wall  of  her  ignorance  fell  down.     The 


The  Patience  of  Margaret  Hope.      145 

psalm  which  troubled  her  was  a  psalm  which  set 
forth  God  as  the  dwelling-place  and  habitation 
of  His  people.  And  the  promise  was  to  those 
who  made  Him  their  habitation.  A  great  joy- 
took  hold  of  her,  and  a  new  deep  trust  in  God. 
She  was  like  one  whom  an  angel  has  lifted  nearer 
heaven.  She  felt  that  God  was,  indeed,  a  dwell- 
ing-place for  His  people  ;  and  even,  although  at 
first  in  a  timid  way,  that  He  would  be  a  dwelling- 
place  for  her.  Then,  like  a  child  to  its  mother, 
she  went  closer  to  God,  taking  refuge  in  His  love 
and  goodness,  until  at  last  she  rose  into  all  the 
joy  of  knowing  and  having  God  as  the  dwelling- 
place  of  her  soul. 

But  when  God  sends  a  joy  like  this  into  any 
soul,  it  is  always  because  it  has  some  work  to  do. 
It  is  Hke  the  food  He  gave  to  Elijah  under  the 
juniper- tree,  in  the  strength  of  which  the  prophet 
had  to  go  forty  days  and  forty  nights.  And  so  it 
turned  out  with  Margaret  Hope.  The  pestilence 
did  not  touch  her.  But  when  that  was  beginning 
to  be  forgotten,  at  the  end  of  five  years  from  the 
time  of  her  soul's  trouble,  a  great  trial  fell  on  her. 
A  disease  almost  worse  than  the  pestilence  laid 
hold  of  her  face.  And,  first,  one  little  bit  of  her 
face  and  then  another  was  eaten  away,  until  at  last 

L 


146  TJie  Gentle  Heart. 

the  whole  centre  of  her  face  was  gone.  Margaret 
could  no  longer  go  out  of  doors — except  at  night. 
The  doctors  hung  a  patch  of  green  silk  over  her 
face,  but  it  was  so  painful  to  look  upon,  that  she 
had  no  choice  but  to  shut  herself  up  in  her  room. 
And  she  became  a  prisoner.  Except  far  away- 
over  the  roofs  of  the  houses  she  never  saw  the 
green  fields  again,  nor  a  flower,  except  when  pity- 
ing friends  brought  her  a  posy  from  their  gardens. 
Morning  after  morning  she  rose  to  her  weary  task 
of  winding  pirns  for  the  weavers  in  the  village. 
A  little  girl  came  daily  to  do  her  few  messages, 
and  that  was  her  outer  life.  But  it  was  not  her 
real  life.  Her  real  life  was  hid  with  Christ  in  God. 
Her  real  home  also  was  in  God.  She  never  went 
back  from  the  joy  which  she  had  learned  from  the 
two  psalms.  Day  by  day  she  said  to  her  soul : 
''  Soul,  thou  art  not  in  an  attic  as  I  am,  nor  do 
thine  eyes  look  forth  from  over  a  face  all  wasted 
with  disease.  Thou  dwellest  in  mansions  on  high, 
in  God  Himself,  and  thine  eyes  behold  the  King 
in  His  beauty."  It  was  while  Margaret  was  in 
the  first  stages  of  this  trial  that  I  first  visited  her. 
I  found  her  studying  her  Bible.  And  very  soon 
I  found  myself  listening  with  all  my  soul  to  what 
she  had  found  in  her  Bible.     She  had  a  wonderful 


The  Patience  of  Margaret  Hope.      147 

insight  into  the  meaning  of  the  Bible.  And  she 
had  a  still  more  wonderful  belief  in  the  reality 
of  it.  But  her  strongest,  surest  belief  was  this, 
that  God  was  the  habitation  of  His  people,  and 
that  there  no  evil,  nor  plague,  nor  wasting  of  flesh, 
nor  disfigurement  of  face  could  come. 

Circumstances  led  me  to  remove  from  that 
village  to  a  distant  city.  And  ten  years  went  past 
before  I  saw  Margaret  again.  And  by  that  time 
a  still  heavier  affliction  had  come  to  her.  She 
was  blind.  As  I  went  up  the  wooden  stairs  that 
led  to  her  attic,  I  saw  her  door  open,  and  her  own 
form  standing  in  the  light.  "  I  knew  it  was  you," 
she  said,  "  I  have  not  forgotten  your  step."  I 
spoke  of  her  blindness  as  a  great  calamity.  But 
she  said  :  "  There's  no  blindness  in  the  house  my 
soul  lives  in.  No,— no  night  there,  you  know." 
''But  tell  me,  Margaret/'  I  said,  "tell  me  the  very 
truth  :  is  that  word  still  a  joy  for  you  ?  Do  you 
not  feel  your  blindness  to  be  an  evil  ?  " 

She  was  knitting  a  worsted  stocking  as  I  spoke, 
and  she  stopped,  laid  her  knitting  things  asidej 
and  said :  "  If  I  were  always  right  myself,  that 
word  would  never  fail  me.  I  did  think  my  blind- 
ness a  great  trial  when  it  came.  And  in  my  grief 
there  was,  as  it  were,  a  veil  over  my  soul.     And 


148  The  Gentle  Hem't. 

I  did  not  see,  and  I  did  not  feel  that  it  was  true 
in  the  way  I  used  to  feel,  that  no  evil  can  come 
nigh  the  dwelling.  But  that  was  only  for  a  little 
time.  I  came  back  to  my  faith  in  God.  And  He 
brought  me  back  to  my  vision  of  love  and  good- 
ness in  Him." 

As  she  was  speaking  a  mavis  began  to  sing  on  a 
tree  outside.  "Do  you  hear  that?"  she  said 
eagerly.  "  That  is  a  joy  I  never  fully  knew  till  I 
became  blind.  The  mavis,  and  the  blackbird,  and 
the  lark,  and  the  red-breast,  ay,  and  the  very 
sparrows,  have  been  sent  into  my  darkness  by 
God  to  cheer  me.  And  in  their  different  seasons 
they  sing  to  me  morning  and  evening,  and  all  the 
day  long.  Oh,  I  have  many  joys.  I  think  I  see 
God  better  since  I  became  blind.  It  is  a  dark 
world,  no  doubt,  I  live  in ;  and  to  me  who  cannot 
go  out  at  all  now,  it  seems  sometimes  very  dark. 
But  dark  though  it  be,  I  aye  see  a  throne  in  the 
midst  of  it,  and  my  Saviour  sitting  on  it  for  me. 
And  I  hear  the  song  of  the  four-and-twenty  elders, 
and  the  four  living  ones  and  the  angels  saying  : 
'  Worthy  is  the  Lamb  that  was  slain.'  " 

I  rose  to  leave,  and  as  I  did  so  I  said  :  "  Well, 
Margaret,  one  thing  I  see,  that  the  good  Lord  is 
perfecting  patience   in    you.      And   you   are,    no 


The  Patience  of  Margaret  Hope.      149 

doubt,  learning  obedience  as  the  Lord  did  by  the 
things  you  suffer." 

"  Do  not  say  that,  sir,"  was  her  reply.  "  My 
patience  at  its  best  is  but  impatience  beside 
Christ's.  And  sometimes  I  am  very  impatient. 
My  face  and  my  eyes  pain  me,  and  I  am  often 
sick.  And  in  these  times  I  am  a  cross  to  every- 
body who  comes  near  me.  And  at  these  times 
the  light  goes  out  of  my  soul,  and  the  vision  of  my 
home  in  God  becomes  dim.  And  I  say  to  myself, 
*  Oh,  Margaret,  Margaret,  thou  art  fallen  now  from 
thy  dwelling  on  high,  and  thy  place  of  refuge  is 
no  longer  the  heart  of  God,  and  thou  art  back  to 
thy  miserable  attic,  and  to  thy  blindness,  and  to 
thy  face  that  cannot  be  seen.'  But  God  is  very 
kind  to  me.  He^  ever  comes  near  to  me,  and 
gives  me  grace  to  repent.  And  He  hides  me  in 
His  tabernacle  as  before,  and  says  to  me  :  '  Thine 
eyes  shall  see  the  King  in  His  beauty  again.'  And 
I  am  just  waiting  His  time,  when  He  shall  lift  me 
out  of  the  attic  to  Him.self,  into  His  own  presence, 
from  which  by  temper,  or  sickness,  or  sin,  I  shall 
no  more  go  out." 

I  was  drawing  my  hand  away  to  leave  ;  but  she 
grasped  it  tightly,  and  said  :  "Do  not  leave  me. 
You  have  only  been  an  hour.      What  is  an  hour 


ISO  The  Gentle  Heart. 

in  ten  years  ?  And  to  one  that  nearly  all  these 
years  has  been  blind  ?  '' 

She  held  me  for  some  time  longer.  And  still 
she  talked  about  the  ways  of  God.  Meantime  a 
shower  of  rain  began  to  fall,  and  we  could  hear 
its  gentle  pattering  on  the  slates.  Then  she  let 
me  go.  Then  her  voice  grew  very  tender  as  if 
she  were  praying,  and  she  said  :  "  May  the  eternal 
God  be  thy  refuge  for  ever.  No  evil  shall  befall 
thee  there,  neither  shall  any  plague  come  nigh  thy 
dwelling." 

I  never  saw  her  again.  But  to  this  day  when  I 
hear  the  rain  pattering  on  the  slates  I  seem  to  be 
back  in  her  lonesome  attic,  and  to  feel  the  clasp 
of  her  feeble  hand.  And  a  voice  rises  within  me 
like  the  voice  of  a  soul  in  prayer,  and  I  hear  once 
more  the  words :  '*  May  the  eternal  God  be  thy 
refuge  for  ever.  No  evil  shall  befall  thee  there, 
neither  shall  any  plague  come  nigh  thy  dwelling." 


THINGS  WHICH  GOD  HATH 
PREPAREDP 


THINGS  WHICH  GOD  HATH  PRE- 
PARED." 


ONE  day  a  mother  and  her  son  were  travelling 
in  an  Eastern  land.  It  is  different  there 
from  what  it  is  in  England.  In  this  country  we 
have  dew  and  rain  and  wells  and  rivers,  and  our 
rivers  never  run  dry.  But  in  the  East  the  sun  is 
sometimes  so  hot  that  it  dries  up  the  dew  and  the 
rain  and  w^ells  and  rivers.  And  the  grass  is  burned 
up,  and  the  leaves  fall  from  the  trees,  and  there  is 
no  water  to  drink,  and  people  die  of  thirst. 

It  was  Hagar  and  Ishmael  her  son,  who  were 
travelling  in  that  hot  land.  They  had  been  sent 
away  from  Abraham's  tent.  The  water  they 
brought  with  them  in  their  skin  bottle  was  all 
spent.  The  hot  sun  beat  upon  their  heads.  And 
poor  Ishmael  grew  sick  for  want  of  water,  and  was 


154  The  Gentle  Heart. 

near  to  die.  It  was  a  wilderness  into  which  they 
had  come.  There  were  neither  roads,  nor  houses, 
nor  inns  in  it.  And  they  could  find  no  wells  with 
water  in  them,  no  cool  rushing  streams,  no  green 
pastures,  no  shady  trees.  There  was  only  the  hot 
earth,  with  the  blistering  rocks  and  the  burned  up 
grass  beneath  their  feet,  and,  above  their  heads, 
the  blazing  sun. 

When  people  are  very  sad  they  are  often  not 
sure  about  their  way ;  tears  blind  the  eyes.  Hagar 
was  very  sad.  She  loved  Abraham.  He  was  the 
father  of  her  boy.  His  tent  had  been  her  home 
for  many  years.  It  was  the  only  home  the  boy 
ever  knew.  And  now  she  was  homeless.  And 
her  boy  had  no  father  to  care  for  him.  And  he 
was  about  to  die  in  the  wilderness.  What  was 
she  to  do  ?  She  could  not  carry  him,  he  was  a 
big  grown  up  lad.  And  she  could  not  bear  to 
be  beside  him  when  she  was  not  able  to  give  him 
help.  Poor  Hagar !  She  did  the  best  she  could. 
There  was  a  little  clump  of  brushwood  near,  and 
she  laid  him  down  there,  in  the  shadow.  She 
herself  drew  back  a  little,  and  burst  into  tears; 
she  could  not  bear  to  lose  her  boy,  or  to  see 
him  die. 

But  just  "then,  when  things  were  at  the  worst, 


"  Tilings  wJiicJi  God  hath  P repaired!'   155 

she  heard  a  voice.  It  was  the  voice  of  an  angel. 
"  What  aileth  thee,  Hagar  ?  "  the  voice  said ;  "  God 
hath  heard  the  cry  of  thy  child."  And  suddenly, 
it  was  as  if  scales  fell  from  the  poor  mother's  eyes, 
and  she  saw  there,  in  that  very  place,  the  thing  she 
most  wished  to  see,  a  well  with  water  in  it.  In  a 
moment  her  heart  was  filled  with  gladness.  Her 
tears  dried  up.  And  she  made  haste  and  brought 
of  the  water  to  her  boy,  and  he  drank  and  did  not 
die.  Now  God  did  not  make  that  well  that  day ; 
the  well  was  there,  although  Hagar  did  not  see  it 
at  first.  The  well  had  been  there  perhaps  from 
the  beginning  of  the  world.  It  was  prepared  by 
God,  and  prepared  for  Hagar  and  her  boy.  Just 
there,  where  it  was  wanted  by  these  two,  God  had 
prepared  it,  preserved  it  from  being  filled  up,  kept 
water  in  it,  all  ready,  for  years  and  years,  till  the 
day  when  Ishmael  should  need  to  drink  of  it  and 
live. 

Two  young  students  were  sitting  one  winter 
evening  beside  a  fire.  They  had  had  a  long  talk 
together,  and  mostly  about  God.  One  of  the  two 
had  lost  sight  of  God  and  could  not  find  Him 
again.  He  had  been  telling  his  friend  this  very 
fact,  and  saying  that  he  could  find  no  sign  of  Him 
in  the  \vorld,  or  in  his  own  heart. 


156  The  Gentle  Heart. 

It  was  no  joy  to  this  young  soul  that  he  had  lost 
sight  of  God.  He  was  not  one  of  the  evil  class 
who  sit  in  the  chair  of  the  scorner.  He  was  filled 
with  the  same  kind  of  sorrow  that  one  has  who  has 
lost  a  friend.  He  had  willingly  listened  to  all  that 
his  companion  had  to  say  to  him.  And  then  the 
talk  between  the  two  ceased,  and  they  were  sitting 
silent,  looking  into  the  fire. 

"  Oh,  my  friend,"  said  the  one  who  had  lost 
sight  of  God,  "sitting  as  we  are  doing  now,  I 
sometimes  see  faces  of  people  I  have  known,  in  the 
fire.  From  my  heart  I  wish  I  could  see  the  face 
of  God  there." 

The  friend  said :  "  And  does  not  something 
like  God's  face  really  shine  out  from  this  fire? 
Would  there  have  been  any  fire  for  us  two  this 
night  if  some  loving  One  had  not  been  think- 
ing of  us  before  we  were  born  ?  Who  made  the 
coals  which  are  burning  there?  Who  stored 
them  up  in  the  earth  for  the  children  of  men  ? 
Who  gave  the  eyes  to  find  it,  and  the  hands  to  dig 
it  out  ?  " 

His  companion  did  not  answer,  and  he  went  on. 
"  I  do  not  wonder  that  people  used  to  believe  that 
fire  was  stolen  from  heaven.  It  is  just  like  a  thing 
that   came   from   heaven.      It   turns   winter   into 


"  Things  which  God  hath  Prepared^   i^'j 

summer  and  night  into  day;  it  cheers  us,  warms 
us,  brightens  our  home  for  us.  It  renders  us  a 
thousand  services  which  it  must  have  been  intended 
to  render,  and  which  seem  to  compel  one  to  think 
that  it  was  prepared  by  God  for  our  use." 

I  cannot  tell  what  effect  these  words  had  on 
the  young  man  who  had  lost  sight  of  God.  But 
the  well  which  Hagar  found  prepared  for  her,  and 
what  this  young  student  said  to  his  sorrowful  friend, 
have  set  me  a-thinking  of  the  things  which  God 
has  prepared. 

We  are  living  in  a  world  which  is  full  of  things 
prepared.  A  fire  far  bigger  than  the  one  those 
young  men  sat  beside  has  been  prepared  and  kept 
burning  by  God  for  a  longer  time  than  you  or  I 
could  tell.  The  sun  is  a  fire  around  which  all 
living  things  are  gathered.  It  is  life,  and  heat, 
and  health,  and  light,  and  joy,  and  movement  to 
man  and  beast,  to  birds  and  trees.  It  sends  its 
heat  and  power  into  all  things,  and  makes  all 
things  fruitful,  and  active,  and  glad. 

And  not  the  sun  only,  but  moon,  and  stars, 
and  hills,  and  streams,  and  fruitful  fields.  An  old 
English  poet  has  said  this  in  words  which  every 
child  should  have  by  heart :— 


158  TJie  Gentle  Heart. 


For  us  the  winds  do  blow  ; 
The  earth  doth  rest,  heaven  move,  and  fountains  flow. 

Nothing  we  see  but  means  our  good, 

As  our  delight,  or  as  our  treasure. 
The  whole  is,  either  our  cupboard  of  food 

Or  cabinet  of  pleasure. 

The  stars  have  us  to  bed  ; 
Night  draws  the  curtain,  which  the  sun  withdraws  ; 
Music  and  light  attend  our  head. 
All  things  unto  our  flesh  are  kind. 

And  all  things  have  been  prepared  for  us  by  God. 
He  has  brought  us  into  a  heritage  that  is  very  fair, 
and  He  has  filled  it  with  things  good  for  our  use. 

When  the  children  of  Israel  came  up  out  of  the 
wilderness  into  the  Land  of  Promise  they  found 
houses,  and  gardens,  and  walled  cities,  and  vine- 
yards, and  olive  yards,  and  ploughed  fields,  and 
rich  pasture  lands  all  prepared  for  them.  It  is 
God's  way  in  dealing  with  His  children.  He 
prepares  good  things  for  them  first,  and  then 
brings  them  in  to  love  Him  and  serve  Him  in 
the  enjoyment  of  these.  ''See,"  He  said  to  the 
children  of  Israel  afterwards,  speaking  by  the 
mouth  of  Joshua :  "  I  have  given  you  a  land  for 
which  ye  did  not  labour,  and  cities  which  ye  built 
not,  and  ye  dwell  in  them  \  of  the  vineyards  and 
olive  yards  which  ye  planted  not  do  ye  eat.     Now, 


''Things  which  God  hath  Prepared!'   159 

therefore,  fear  the  Lord  and  serve  Him  in  sincerity 
and  truth." 

And  it  is  just  this  way  God  has  dealt  with  you 
to  whom  I  am  this  day  speaking.  You  came  from 
God  as  babies  into  this  Christian  land.  When  you 
opened  your  eyes  and  began  to  look  about  you 
you  found  yourselves  in  homes  prepared  for  you, 
with  loving  mothers  and  fathers  waiting  to  take 
care  of  you.  You  found  yourselves  in  a  land  of 
churches,  and  days  of  worship,  and  Bibles,  and 
schools,  and  teachers.  Around  the  fire  on  winter 
evenings  you  have  listened  to  stories  of  patriots 
who  fought  and  of  martyrs  who  died,  for  their 
country  and  for  truth ;  these  very  stories  are  part 
of  what  God  has  prepared  for  you  in  this  happy 
land.  Beside  you,  perhaps  in  the  same  street 
or  village  in  which  you  live,  are  men  and  women 
who  have  given  themselves  to  God,  and  who  every 
day  of  their  lives,  quietly  and  unseen,  are  going 
about  doing  good :  these  also,  to  be  a  help  and 
example  to  you,  have  been  prepared  for  you  by 
God.  But,  more  wonderful  and  better  than  all,  in 
this  very  land  you  can  find  God  Himself  There 
is  no  spot  in  it  from  which  the  cry  of  a  child's 
heart  will  not  reach  Him.  And  here,  as  in  Judaea 
long  ago,  His  Son  is  taking  up  children  in  His 


i6o  Tlie  Gentle  Heart. 


arms  to  bless  them,  and  is  healing  the  sick  and 
opening  the  eyes  of  the  blind,  and  saying  to  the 
poor  and  the  heavy  laden  :  "  Come  unto  Me  and 
I  will  give  you  rest."  And  all  this  is  part  of  the 
things  which  God  has  prepared  for  those  who  love 
Him. 

There  is  a  hymn  we  sometimes  sing,  which 
begins  with  the  words,  ''  I'm  but  a  stranger  here." 
In  that  hymn  it  is  said,  "  Earth  is  a  desert  drear." 
But  the  meaning  is  not  that  the  beautiful  earth 
itself  which  God  has  prepared  for  our  dwelling- 
place  is  a  desert.  The  meaning  is  that  it  looks 
like  a  desert  to  eyes  that  have  lost  sight  of  God. 
It  is  like  a  desert  also  to  people  like  Hagar,  who 
are  in  sorrow,  whose  eyes  are  blind  with  tears 
because  those  they  love  have  died  or,  are  about 
to  die. 

But  for  people  in  these  circumstances,  and  for 
all  to  whom  for  any  cause  the  beautiful  earth  looks 
like  a  desert,  God  has  prepared  a  well  more 
wonderful  than  that  which  Hagar  saw.  Jesus  was 
speaking  of  this  well  when  He  said  to  the  woman 
of  Samaria,  "whosoever  drinketh  of  the  water  that 
I  shall  give  shall  never  thirst."  Jesus  Himself 
— as  the  Word  of  God — is  this  well.  He  is  the 
well   in    which    the  water  of  life   springs  up,  the 


'*  Things  ivJiich  God  JiatJi  Prepared!'   i6i 

well  which  the  saints  in  heaven  drink  of,  of 
which  God  Himself  drinks.  And  it  has  been 
prepared  for  us  by  God,  prepared  in  Jesus, 
into  whom  for  us  the  living  water  has  been 
poured.  And  Jesus,  thinking  of  Himself  as  this 
well  of  heaven,  calls  upon  all  to  come  unto  Him 
and  drink. 

I  read  once  of  a  young  German  student  who 
found  out  this  well.  He  was  like  one  in  a  wilder- 
ness where  he  could  not  find  God.  Like  Ishmael, 
he  was  dying  for  thirst,  but  it  was  the  sight  of 
God  for  which  he  was  thirsting.  Day  and  night 
his  cry  was,  "  Oh  that  I  knew  where  I  might  find 
Him  ! "  He  saw  himself  to  be  a  poor  sin-laden 
creature,  who  was  shut  out  by  his  sins  from  the 
presence  of  God.  Day  and  night  he  sought  after 
God.  He  sought  in  the  church  and  could  not 
find  Him  there.  He  shut  himself  up  in  his  room, 
and  cried  out  in  the  darkness,  and  could  not  find 
Him  there.  He  saw  the  faces  of  saints  and  holy 
prophets  in  the  fire,  but  never  the  face  of  God. 
His  soul  was  faint  within  him  for  want  of  God. 
But  one  day  he  went  into  the  library  of  the  college 
where  he  was  studying,  and  there,  on  the  shelves, 
all  covered  with  dust,  he  found  the  very  well  for 
whose  water  his  soul  was  thirsting  ;  he  found  the 

M 


1 62  The  Gentle  Heart. 

Bible.  There  it  was,  all  ready  for  him,  waiting  for 
him,  prepared  by  God  hundreds  of  years  before, 
put  there,  in  that  very  spot,  for  him  by  God. 
And  the  young  man  opened  it  and  read  and  found 
the  story  of  Christ  in  it,  and  the  way  by  which  a 
soul  must  go  to  find  God,  and  how  in  Jesus  a  well 
has  been  opened  for  all  sin,  and  that  whosoever 
drank  of  that  well  should  be  cleansed  of  sin,  made 
holy,  and  live  for  ever.  It  was  Martin  Luther 
who  found  the  Bible  in  this  wonderful  way,  and 
also  found,  as  we  also  shall  do  if  we  try,  that  it 
is  a  well  in  the  desert,  a  well  into  which  God  has 
poured  water  of  truth  and  life  for  the  soul  to  drink 
of  and  to  live. 

One  of  the  wonderful  things  which  Luther  read 
in  the  Bible  was  the  story  of  an  old  prisoner  in 
Rome.  The  old  man  was  chained  to  a  soldier, 
and  thinking  sad  thoughts.  It  was  the  great  Paul. 
For  telling  men  that  Jesus  was  a  well  of  salvation 
he  had  been  sent  by  wicked  men  to  prison.  And 
now  his  trial  was  coming  on,  and  his  judge  was  a 
very  evil  man,  and  Paul  was  thinking  in  his  own 
heart  that  the  judgment  might  go  against  him.  It 
was  something  like  this  which  was  passing  through 
his  mind:  "My  enemies  are  cruel,  my  judge  is 
bad,  and  I  may  be  condemned  to  die."     Then  he 


"  Things  which  God  hath  Prepared!'    163 

thought  of  the  work  which  remained  to  be  done. 
Then  he  wondered  who  should  do  his  work  if  he 
were  put  to  death.  Then  he  looked  into  the 
lonesome  grave  and  across  into  the  world  beyond ^ 
and  there  he  saw,  all  prepared  for  him,  the  very 
sight  his  sad  soul  wished  to  see  ;  he  saw  Jesus  on 
the  throne  of  God.  It  was  like  seeing  a  Avell  in  a 
desert ;  it  was  like  drinking  of  living  water  when 
the  soul  is  faint  with  thirst.  "  Jesus  reigns,"  he 
said  to  himself.  "  The  work  will  go  on,  though  I 
should  die;  and  if  I  die,  I  shall  go  to  Him." 

When  you  and  I  come  to  the  end  of  our  lives 
may  we  see  the  vision  which  Paul  saw,  and  be 
able  to  say  with  him,  "  To  live  is  Christ,  to  die  is 
gain."  And  may  we  know  that  we  are  going  home 
to  our  Father's  house,  and  to  places  there  prepared 
for  us  by  Christ. 

We  shall  never  know  the  beauty  of  these  places 
till  then.  "Eye  hath  not  seen,  nor  ear  heard, 
neither  have  entered  into  the  heart  of  man,  the 
things  which  God  hath  prepared  for  them  that 
love  Him." 


CHRIST  RESHAPING    THE  SOUL. 


CHRIST  RESHAPING  THE  SOUL. 

IN  the  city  of  Florence,  more  than  four  hundred 
years  ago,  there  happened  to  be  a  great  block 
of  marble.  At  that  time  the  people  of  Florence 
loved  to  have  marble  figures  of  saints  and  angels 
in  the  streets  and  squares  of  their  city.  The  rulers 
of  the  city,  wishing  in  this  to  please  the  people, 
sent  for  a  carver  of  marble  and  said  to  him,  "Take 
this  block  of  marble  and  carve  it  into  a  statue 
for  our  city."  But  the  man  to  whom  this  was 
said  was  careless  or  unskilful.  He  spoiled  the 
block.  He  cut  into  it  here  and  there,  but  brought 
out  no  statue.  And  it  was  cast  aside,  and  lay  in 
one  of  the  building-yards  of  the  city,  covered  with 
sand  and  rubbish,  until  it  was  looked  upon  as  a 
worthless  thing. 

When  the  marble  had  lain  in  that  place  nearly 


1 68  The  Gentle  Heart. 

forty  years,  a  young  man,  who  is  now  known  as  the 
great  Michael  Angelo,  had  occasion  to  be  in  the 
yard  where  it  lay.  And  seeing  the  block  buried  in 
the  rubbish,  he  said,  "  I  wish  the  rulers  of  the  city 
would  give  this  to  me  to  carve."  "  But  it  is  spoiled 
for  carving,"  said  a  friend.  "  Not  so  spoiled,"  an- 
swered Angelo,  "  that  there  is  not  an  angel  inside 
still."  The  rulers  hearing  of  this,  and  looking  upon 
the  block  as  worthless  in  its  present  state,  said, 
"  The  young  carver  might  go  to  work  upon  it  and 
let  the  angel  out."  So  he  cleared  it  from  the 
rubbish,  took  his  hammer  and  chisel,  and  began  to 
carve.  And  bit  by  bit  the  misshapen  block  came 
into  shape.  And  at  last,  when  his  carving  was 
ended,  there  stood  before  the  eyes  of  the  citizens 
a  splendid  figure  of  David  with  his  sling.  And 
this  the  citizens  set  up  with  joy  in  their  city, 
and  it  is  one  of  the  great  sights  of  Florence  to 
this  day. 

When  I  read  this  story  the  other  day,  in  the 
Life  of  Michael  Angelo,  I  said  to  myself,  "It  is 
like  the  history  of  man  upon  the  earth.  First  there 
is  the  fair  unspoiled  marble  of  human  life,  the  first 
life  in  the  garden,  as  made  by  God ;  then  there  is 
the  marred  life,  the  life  misshapen  by  sin  ;  then  the 
beautiful  new  form  of  life,  the  new  shapely  Chris- 


Christ  Reshaping  the  Soul.  169 

tian  life,  wrought  in  us  by  Jesus  Christ.  It  is  also 
like  the  story  of  the  Prodigal.  First  there  is  the 
fair  boy,  the  innocent  life,  with  the  promise  of  all 
good  in  it,  in  the  early  home;  then  there  is  the  spoiled 
boy,  the  boy  who  would  be  a  lord  to  himself,  who 
took  his  life  into  a  far  land,  and  marred  and  wasted 
it  all  by  sin  ;  and  then  there  is  the  boy  new  made, 
forgiven,  clothed,  and  in  his  right  mind,  received 
back  into  the  home  once  more." 

This  led  me  to  think  of  other  lives  I  had  known 
or  read  about, — lives  that  had  been  marred  by  sin 
and  cast  out  as  worthless,  just  as  the  block  of  mar- 
ble had  been.  And  then  I  went  on  to  think  of  the 
merciful  Saviour  finding  these  lives  in  their  lost- 
ness,  and  lifting  them  up  out  of  the  dust,  and  re- 
shaping them,  and  making  them  beautiful  with  the 
beauty  of  His  own  life. 


The  first  I  thought  of  was  John  Bunyan,  who 
wrote  "Pilgrim's  Progress."  There  was  never  a 
young  life  more  like  a  marred  block  than  hiis  when 
he  was  a  boy.  You  have  all  read  the  "  Pilgrim's 
Progress."  You  remember  the  story  of  Christian 
and  his  burden,  the  evil  city  from  which  he  fled, 
and  the  wicket  gate  through  which  he  escaped,  and 


I/O  The  Gentle  Heart. 

the  cross  where  his  burden  fell  off,  and  the  open 
grave  into  which  it  fell.  You  remember  the  strange 
things  which  happened  to  him  after  that,  the  strange 
places  he  saw,  and  the  people  he  met  by  the  way. 
And  you  cannot  have  forgotten  the  river  he  passed 
over  at  last,  or  the  songs  which  were  sung  as  he 
and  Hopeful  were  led  up  to  the  gate  of  the  Celestial 
City  on  the  other  side. 

Could  you  imagine  that  the  man  who  wrote  that 
wonderful  story  had  once  been  a  rude,  godless,  and 
wicked  boy  ?  Yet  that  is  his  own  account  of  his 
early  life.  Bad  companions,  and  ignorance,  and 
his  own  foolish  heart  led  him  into  evil  of  every 
kind.  "It  was  my  delight,"  he  says,  "to  be  taken 
captive  by  the  devil  at  his  will ;  being  filled  with 
all  unrighteousness,  so  that  from  a  child  I  had  few 
equals,  both  for  cursing,  lying,  and  blaspheming 
the  name  of  God." 

John  was  a  tinker,  and  the  son  of  a  tinker,  in  the 
town  of  Elstow.  He  had  been  taught  to  read,  but 
forgot  it.  He  was  idle  and  given  to  play.  When 
he  grew  up  to  be  a  lad,  for  a  short  time  he  had 
to  become  a  soldier,  and  go  into  battle.  But  all 
through  these  years  the  Lord  Jesus  was  watching 
over  him,  and  preparing  him  to  be  one  of  His 
soldiers,  and   to   write  the  "Pilgrim's  Progress." 


Christ  Reshaping  the  Son/.  171 

He  sent  strange  thoughts  and  voices  into  the  lad's 
heart.  One  Sunday  afternoon  as  he  was  playing 
on  Elstow  Green  at  Tip  Cat  with  other  lads,  he 
heard  a  voice  saying  to  him,  "  Wilt  thou  leave  thy 
sins  and  go  to  heaven,  or  have  thy  sins  and  go  to 
hell  ?  "  Although  the  voice  was  only  in  his  own 
soul,  it  sounded  so  real  that  he  looked  up  to  heaven 
for  the  speaker.  Like  Nebuchadnezzar  of  old  also 
the  thoughts  on  his  bed  troubled  him.  He  had 
dreams  in  which  he  saw  wicked  men  shut  up  in 
globes  of  fire.  His  thoughts,  when  those  dreams 
came,  were  Hke  masterless  hounds  rushing  up  and 
down  in  his  soul.  Once,  for  a  whole  year,  and 
after  he  had  taken  Christ  for  his  Lord,  he  was 
tempted  by  a  voice  which  told  him  to  sell  Christ 
as  Esau  had  sold  his  birthright.  The  voice  said, 
''Sell  Him,  sell  Him,  sell  Him."  Sometimes  it 
would  say  it  hundreds  of  times  together,  till  he  had 
to  set  his  soul  against  it. 

"  One  morning,"  he  tells  us,  in  the  story  of  his 
life,  "  as  I  did  lie  in  my  bed,  I  was,  as  at  other 
times,  fiercely  assaulted  with  this  temptation, — the 
wicked  suggestion  running  in  my  mind,  '  Sell  Him, 
sell  Him,  sell  Him,  sell  Him,'  as  fast  as  a  man 
could  speak.  I  answered,  '  No,  no,  not  for  thou- 
sands, thousands,  thousands,'  at  least  twenty  times 


1/2  The  Gentle  Heart. 

together.  But  at  last,  after  much  striving,  I  felt 
this  thought  pass  througli  my  heart,  Let  Him  go  if 
He  will ;  and  I  thought  also  that  I  felt  my  heart 
freely  consent  thereto." 

John  thought  he  was  now  fairly  lost.  "  Down 
fell  I,  as  a  bird  that  is  shot  from  the  top  of  a  tree, 
into  great  guilt  and  fearful  despair." 

But  John  was  not  lost.  Christ  was  bringing  his 
misshapen  life  into  His  own  form.  In  His  kind- 
ness He  gave  him  a  godly  wife,  who  taught  him 
once  more  to  read,  and  used  to  tell  him  how  good 
it  is  to  be  good.  Her  father  was  good.  John  tried 
hard  to  be  like  her  father.  He  went  to  church. 
He  read  the  Bible.  He  followed  the  ten  command- 
ments. He  prayed.  Still  he  was  not  happy.  But 
one  day,  he  says,  "  The  good  providence  of  God 
called  me  to  Bedford  to  work  at  my  calling,  and  in 
one  of  the  streets  of  that  town  I  came  where  there 
were  three  or  four  poor  women  sitting  at  a  door  in 
the  sun,  talking  about  the  things  of  God."  He 
drew  near.  He  listened  to  their  talk.  It  was 
about  the  new  birth.  He  learned  for  the  first 
time,  like  Nicodemus,  that  a  man  must  be  born 
again.  He  now  saw  that  it  was  not  the  ten  com- 
mandments, or  going  to  church,  that  was  to  save 
him,  but  a  new  heart.      And  in  good  time,  but  not 


Christ  Reshaping  the  Soul.  173 

without  many  temptations,  such  as  the  one  to  sell 
the  Saviour,  he  received  from  that  Saviour  the  new- 
heart,  and  never  more  turned  aside.  And  so  it 
came  to  pass,  that  out  of  this  poor,  ignorant,  idle 
gipsy  lad,  Christ  formed  a  new,  manly,  beautiful 
life.  Evil  dreams  of  wicked  men  in  globes  of  fire 
passed  into  the  back  region  of  his  soul,  and  dreams 
of  Christian  pilgrims  came  into  their  place.  He 
became  a  great  preacher  in  this  land.  And  although 
evil  men  put  him  into  prison  for  preaching,  he, 
even  in  the  prison,  dreamed  his  dream  of  heaven. 
He  heard  the  bells  of  the  celestial  city  ringing, 
and  saw  the  forms  of  angels  and  just  men  made 
perfect  going  up  and  down  on  the  golden  streets. 
And  in  the  solitude  of  his  prison,  with  only  his 
blind  daughter  to  visit  him,  he  wrote  that  story 
which  old  and  young  shall  read  as  long  as  books 
are  read  in  this  world, — the  story  of  Christian's 
pilgrimage  from  earth  to  heaven. 


It  was  a  great  blessing  to  John  Bunyan  that  God 
gave  him  a  wife  who  could  pray.  She  prayed  for 
him.  It  is  the  same  blessing  to  you,  when  you  have 
fathers  and  mothers  who  pray.  They  are  always 
asking  Jesus  to  give  you  His  own  beautiful  form  of 


1/4  J^^i-e  Gentle  Heart. 


life.  And  if,  at  any  time,  in  any  of  their  children 
they  see  evil  coming  into  the  life,  or  the  first  fair 
form  of  baby  life  becoming  spoiled  by  sin,  it  is  to 
Jesus  they  go  in  their  distress.  They  say  to  Him, 
"  Lord  Jesus,  save  our  child  \  for  Thy  mercy  sake, 
reshape  the  soul."  But  many  a  praying  parent  has 
to  die  before  the  prayers  are  answered,  and  the 
beauty  of  God  can  be  seen  on  the  children. 

In  a  seaport  town  in  Scotland,  about  twenty 
years  ago,  a  Christian  mother  was  dying,  and  some 
very  earnest  prayers  which  she  had  offered  were 
unanswered  still.  Her  husband,  her  sister,  and  all 
her  children  except  one,  were  in  the  room  beside 
her.  "  Are  you  willing  to  go,  darling  ?  "  the  sister 
said,  bending  over  and  kissing  her.  "If  it  seems 
good  to  my  Father,  I  am,"  she  whispered.  Then, 
after  a  little  pause,  she  added,  "And  I  have  no 
fear  and  no  care."  But  when  she  said  "  no  care," 
the  sister,  with  all  who  were  in  the  room,  thought 
of  the  absent  one.  And  she  said,  "About  Dan, 
dearest,  have  you  no  care  for  Dan  ?  "  The  dying 
mother  said,  whispering  her  words  out  one  by  one, 
"  My  prayers  for  Dan  are  with  God ;  He  will  an- 
swer them  in  His  good  time.  Dan  will  yet  become 
a  child  of  God.  Day  and  night  for  seven  years 
I   have   prayed   that   this   might   come   to   pass." 


CJirist  ResJiaping  tJie  Soul.  175 

These  were  her  last  words.  In  a  little  while  she 
died. 

Dan  had  been  a  great  care  to  her.  He  had  been 
idle  and  wilful,  and  many  things  besides  that  are 
bad.  His  boyhood  was  wasted  with  idleness.  He 
passed  through  school  without  learning  anything 
except  to  read  and  write.  There  was  no  fear  of 
God  in  his  heart.  He  hated  goodness  and  work. 
Many  a  time  his  mother  had  taken  him  into  her 
room,  and  pleaded  with  him  to  leave  his  idleness 
and  folly;  but  she  pleaded  in  vain.  At  last  he 
went  to  sea,  and  at  the  time  she  died  was  sailing 
on  the  coast  of  China. 

But  his  mother  had  not  left  her  prayers  with 
God  in  vain.  About  six  months  after  he  had  heard 
of  her  death,  he  was  one  night  keeping  watch  with 
another  sailor  on  the  look-out.  The  night  was 
dark,  a  strong  wind  was  blowing,  and  the  ship  in 
full  sail  running  before  the  wind.  As  he  was  pacing 
backwards  and  forwards  on  the  poop,  the  one  sailor 
on  the  one  side,  he  on  the  other,  the  ship  gave  a 
sudden  lurch,  and  he  was  thrown  overboard.  In  a 
moment  he  felt  himself  falling  through  the  darkness 
into  the  deeper  darkness  of  the  sea.  He  heard,  or 
fancied  he  heard,  the  words,  "  Man  overboard,'' 
sounded  out  by  his  companion.     But  next  moment 


1/6  The  Gentle  Heart. 

he  felt  himself  in  the  black  waters,  and  sinking, 
sinking,  sinking  into  their  depths.  He  knew  he 
had  almost  no  chance  of  being  saved.  The  ship 
was  rushing  forward  at  great  speed,  and  must  al- 
ready be  far  from  where  he  sank;  and  the  night 
was  very  dark.  But  soon  he  ceased  to  think  about 
safety  or  ship.  His  whole  by-past  life  seemed  to 
open  up  before  him.  He  saw  the  school  in  which 
he  was  so  idle,  and  the  church  which  was  such  a 
weariness  to  him,  and  the  house  he  had  loved  so  ill, 
and  the  room  in  that  home  in  which  his  mother  had 
so  often  prayed  and  pleaded  with  him  to  change 
his  hfe.  The  years  of  his  boyhood  came  back  to 
him  one  by  one  3  and  days  in  which  he  had  played 
truant,  and  the  faces  of  companions  with  whom 
he  had  wrought  mischief.  Then  he  recalled  the 
time  when  he  first  went  to  sea,  and  his  mother's 
tears  as  she  parted  with  him.  And  then  a  vision  of 
his  mother  on  her  death-bed,  as  she  had  been  de- 
scribed to  him  in  letters  from  home^  came  vividly 
into  his  soul.  He  seemed  to  be  in  the  very  room, 
and  to  hear  the  words  which  she  had  spoken,  and  her 
last  words  about  himself.  Then  there  was  a  great 
light,  and  in  the  centre  of  it  he  saw  his  mother's 
face ;  then,  as  he  looked  at  her,  expecting  her  to 
smile  on  him,  the  face  changed  and  disappeared, 


Christ  Reshaping  the  Soul.  lyy 

and  there  was  a  sound  of  bells ;  then  a  murmur  as 
of  bees ;  then  the  light  faded,  and  a  great  silence 
fell  upon  his  soul. 

When  he  came  to  himself  again,  he  was  lying  in 
his  berth.  Dark  though  the  night  was,  and  far 
behind  though  the  shij^  had  left  him,  his  brave 
shipmates  searched  back  for  him  with  the  long- 
boat until  they  found  him, — and  found  him  as  he 
rose,  perhaps  for  the  last  time,  to  the  surface.  It 
was  a  long  week  before  he  was  able  to  leave  the 
berth.  But  he  left  it  a  new  man.  In  that  week 
God  gave  him  a  new  heart,  and  changed  him  in 
some  measure  into  His  own  likeness.  His  mother's 
prayers  were  answered,  as  she  foretold.  Her  idle, 
wilful  boy  became  an  earnest  Christian  man,  and 
for  many  years  did  noble  Christian  service  as  cap- 
tain of  a  vessel. 

III. 

I  may  be  speaking  to  some  boy  or  girl  who  is 
passing  an  unchristian  childhood,  and  whose  heart 
is  beginning  to  see  the  evil  of  it,  and  to  wish  that 
Christ  would  put  that  evil  away.  For  that  child's 
sake  I  will  tell  a  little  history  of  a  childhood  which 
a  Christian  lady  once  told  to  me.  The  lady  and  I 
were  speaking  of  children,  and  she  said,  "  God 
does  not  despair  of  any  child.     God  can  turn  boys 

N 


178  The  Gentle  Heart. 

and  girls  who  are  rude,  and  selfish,  and  untruthful, 
into  right-hearted  children  of  His  own.  I  am  far 
from  being  what  I  ought  to  be.  I  am  still  a  very 
imperfect,  very  frail  servant  of  the  Lord.  But  my 
childhood,  when  I  look  back  to  it,  was  as  far  from 
right  as  any  child's  could  well  be.  I  had  no 
thought  but  for  myself.  I  have  never  since  met  a 
child  so  selfish  as  I  then  was.  My  brothers  and 
sisters,  my  father  and  mother — I  cared  for  none  of 
them  in  comparison  with  myself.  I  coveted  and 
seized  the  best  things.  I  took  the  best  places  for 
myself.  When  the  younger  children  came  in  cold 
and  weary,  I  would  not  leave  the  warm  corner  at 
the  fire  to  help  them,  or  give  them  the  corner  to  sit 
in.  When  anybody  in  the  house  was  sick,  it  was  a 
worry  to  me  to  be  asked  to  wait  in  the  sick-room, 
even  for  half  an  hour.  And  when  I  was  found  out 
in  any  of  my  selfish  and  unkind  ways,  if  I  could 
defend  myself  by  a  lie,  I  told  that  lie.  One  day, 
there  had  been  some  worse  outburst  of  my  selfish- 
ness and  untruthfulness  than  usual,  and  my  father 
was  present.  'Child,  child,'  he  said  to  me  in 
bitterness,  '  I  have  never  had  one  hour's  pleasure 
in  you.'  It  was  a  terrible  word  to  come  from  a 
father's  lips.  I  was  fourteen  at  the  time,  and  old 
enough  to  know  the  meaning  and  feel  the  pain  of 


Christ  Reshapmg  the  Soul.  179 

the  word.  It  went  into  my  soul  like  a  knife.  I 
crept  out  of  sight,  went  up  to  my  little  room,  threw 
myself  on  the  floor,  and  tried  to  cry.  But  no  tears 
came  to  my  eyes.  I  only  felt  the  sharp  words  cut- 
ting me  through  and  through,  '  Child,  child,  I  have 
never  had  one  hour's  pleasure  in  you.' 

''  I  tried  to  think  my  father  wrong,  tried  to  think 
him  mistaken,  or  unjust,  or  hard.  But  the  more  I 
thought  of  his.  words,  the  more  clearly  I  saw  them 
to  be  true.  Then  my  thoughts  went  up  to  the 
Father  in  heaven.  Had  he  also  never  had  an 
hour's  pleasure  in  me  ?  I  became  afraid.  I 
thought  I  was  in  His  presence.  And  a  face  that 
at  a  distance  was  in  some  things  like  my  father's, 
in  some  other  things  like  pictures  of  angels  I  had 
seen,  seemed  to  look  at  me,  and  look  down  into 
my  very  soul,  with  severe  eyes,  while  from  the  lips 
came  the  words,  'Never  one  hour's  pleasure  in 
you.' 

"  I  do  not  know  how  I  got  into  bed  that  night 
and  I  have  no  remembrance  of  what  took  place 
for  the  next  day  or  two.  I  could  never  afterwards 
feel  that  my  father  loved  me.  And  he  died  with- 
out taking  back  his  words  or  showing  me  any  love. 
But  I  tha,nk  him  for  his  words.  They  were  God's 
sharp  tools  to  new-shape  me.     My  life  began  to 


i8o  The  Gefitie  Heart. 


change  from  the  hour  they  were  spoken.  With  my 
whole  strength  I  cried  to  God  to  help  me  to  cast 
my  selfishness  away.  And  God  has  been  very 
kind.  As  I  said,  I  am  still  far  from  being  what  I 
ought  to  be ;  but  He  sends  hours  to  me  at  times 
in  which  I  am  free  to  think,  that  even  He  is  well 
pleased  with  me  now,  for  Jesus'  sake." 

IV. 

I  will  only  say  one  thing  more.  God  is  very 
good,  and  both  able  and  willing  to  reshape  lives 
which  have  been  spoiled  by  sin  j  but  do  not  think 
it  is  all  the  same  in  the  end  for  the  lives  He  re- 
shapes, as  if  they  had  never  been  spoiled  by  sin. 

I  knew  a  man  once  whom  God  had  new-made — 
a  most  worthy,  kind-hearted.  God-fearing  man. 
What  God  had  changed  him  from  was  hard-hearted- 
ness.  He  had  hard  thoughts  about  God  and  man. 
He  was  hard  in  all  his  ways.  He  believed  that 
everybody  was  dishonest,  and  had  to  be  watched. 
He  used  to  say,  "  God  is  no  more  to  be  trusted 
than  other  people."  Although  he  came  to  the 
church  on  Sunday,  he  listened  with  hard  thoughts 
to  everything  that  was  said.  He  was  always  find- 
ing fault,  always  saying  to  some  one  or  other  some 
bitter  unkind  wor  i. 


CJirist  Reshaping  the  Soul.  i8i 

By  the  merciful  providence  of  God  this  hard- 
hearted man  fell  ill,  and  for  a  time  it  seemed  as  if 
his  illness  might  end  in  death.  The  servants  whose 
honesty  he  never  believed  in  were  very  kind  to 
him  in  this  illness.  Neighbours  whom  he  had 
sjDoken  unkind  words  of  came  in  and  helped.  The 
pastor  whom  he  had  often  sneered  at,  and  his 
fellow-members  in  the  church  he  attended,  came 
about  him  in  loving  and  tender  ways.  And  this 
love  touched  his  hard  heart.  Through  this  love 
came  upon  him,  for  the  first  time,  a  belief  in  the 
love  of  God.  On  his  sick-bed  he  learned  that 
God  may  be  trusted.  He  learned  how  great  and 
true  the  love  must  have  been  which  sent  Jesus  to 
die  for  us.  God's  love  shining  from  the  cross  of 
Jesus  was  like  coals  of  fire  upon  his  heart.  Its 
hardness  was  melted  away,  and  a  gentle,  loving, 
trustful  spirit  was  given  to  him,  and  he  rose  from 
his  bed  a  new  man,  humble,  meek,  merciful,  and 
full  of  charitable  thoughts  and  deeds.  But  when 
this  took  place  he  was  nearly  an  ©Id  man.  The 
years  which  went  before  were  lost  years  to  him. 
So  long  as  they  lasted,  the  evil  thoughts  of  his 
heart  shut  him  out  from  being  a  friend  either  to 
God  or  man. 

And  therefore  it  is  unwise  and  wrong  for  any  one 


1 82  The  Gentle  Heart. 

to  say,  "  I  will  go  on  in  evil  a  while  longer,  and 
God  will  make  me  all  right  in  the  end."  It  is  cer- 
tain, that  the  longer  one  remains  in  such  a  way, 
the  hurt  of  it  will  go  deeper  and  deeper  into  the 
soul.  Sin  is  always  evil,  and  it  always  leaves  evil 
marks  behind. 

The  statue  of  David  which  Michael  Angelo 
carved  is  not  so  beautiful  as  it  would  have  been 
if  the  block  from  which  he  carved  it  had  not  been 
spoiled  before. 


ON  THE  EVIL  OF  FORGETTING   GOD, 


ON   THE   EVIL  OF  FORGETTING  GOD. 


IN  the  Bible  the  most  beautiful  things  are  taken 
to  describe  the  good  that  comes  into  a  life 
that  remembers  God.  But  to  describe  the  evil 
that  comes  upon  a  life  that  forgets  God,  things  the 
most  terrible  are  used.  Among  these  terrible 
things  is  a  tempest.  Our  Lord,  speaking  of  one 
who  hears  His  sayings  but  forgets  to  do  them, 
says  :  He  is  like  a  house  on  which  "the  rain  de- 
scended, and  the  floods  came,  and  the  winds  blew, 
and  beat,  and  it  fell,  and  great  was  the  fall  of  it." 
The  old  prophets  also,  telling  of  cities  that  had 
forgotten  God,  and  of  evil  days  coming  on  them 
in  consequence  of  that,  describe  these  days  as  days 
of  wind  and  tempest  which  shall  smite  and  over- 
throw the  cities,  and  at  last  leave  them  mere  heaps 
of   ruin.       And   in   the   chapter  of    Ecclesiastes, 


1 86  The  Gentle  Heart. 

where  young  people  are  exhorted  to  remember 
their  Creator  in  the  days  of  their  youth,  the 
Preacher  speaks  of  evil  days  sure  to  come  if  they 
fail  to  remember  Him,  days  in  which  they  shall 
say  "  we  have  no  pleasure  in  them."  These  days 
so  evil  that  the  soul  can  find  no  pleasure  in  them 
are  likened  to  days  in  which  the  heavens  are  filled 
with  tempest,  in  which  the  tempest  breaks  upon 
the  house,  and  the  house  is  wrapped  round  with 
terror  and  desolation  and  death. 

As  often  as  I  read  this  chapter  I  seem  to  see 
the  scene  it  describes.  I  see  a  fair  mansion, 
among  stately  trees,  standing  in  beautiful  grounds, 
and  filled  and  surrounded  with  life  and  joy.  The 
sun  is  shining.  The  doors  are  open  to  its  light. 
The  men  are  working  in  the  fields.  The  maid- 
servants are  grinding  the  corn.  The  ladies  are 
looking  out  at  the  open  windows.  Through  these 
windows  I  see  for  the  evening  hours  golden  lamps 
hung  on  silver  cords.  In  the  court  I  see  a  deep 
well  with  wheel  and  bucket  to  supply  the  house 
with  water.  Everything  is  touched  with  life  and 
joy.  The  swallows  are  shooting  down  from  the 
eaves.  The  singing  birds  are  filling  the  woods 
with  song.  It  is  a  happy  time  for  that  house,  a 
day  in   which   God  is  pouring  out  His  mercies,  a 


On  the  Evil  of  Forgettmg  God.      i  Sj 

day  to  remember  Him.  But  this  is  a  house  where 
God  is  not  remembered.  Those  who  Hve  there 
receive  His  kindness  and  are  unthankful.  They 
take  His  gifts,  but  spend  them  on  themselves. 
And  days  and  years  go  past  in  which  He  is  patient, 
waiting  to  see  if  they  will  even  yet  turn  to  Him. 
And  then  come  days  in  which  things  begin  to 
change.  The  early  joys  do  not  return.  And  day 
comes  after  day,  and  no  pleasure  with  them.  At 
last  comes  a  day  of  terror.  The  heavens  are  black 
with  clouds.  The  clouds  dissolve  in  rain.  More 
clouds  overspread  the  sky,  heavier,  blacker  than 
before.  Lightnings  flash ;  thunders  roll ;  wind 
and  rain  beat  upon  the  once  beautiful  house.  The 
masters,  bending  beneath  the  blast,  hurry  in  from 
the  field.  The  door  is  shut.  The  ladies  shrink 
back  in  terror  from  the  windows.  The  maids  flee 
from  their  grinding  at  the  mill.  Even  the  men- 
servants  begin  to  tremble.  Outside,  the  birds  that 
made  the  air  happy  with  song  are  either  leaping 
and  shrieking  with  fear  or  silent.  On  all  inside 
fear  descends  ;  they  cannot  eat ;  death  is  coming 
upon  them.  The  tempest  snaps  the  cords  on  which 
the  lamps  are  hanging;  breaks  the  very  bucket 
that  brings  up  water  from  the  well.  It  will  soon 
be  all  over  with  that  house.      House,  inhabitants. 


1 88  The  Gentle  Heart. 

life,  joy,  industry: — all  are  \vrapped  round  about  by 
the  darkness,  and  about  to  be  overwhelmed  by  the 
terrible  tempest  which  has  come  crashing  out  of 
the  sky  from  God. 

And  all  that  tempest,  with  all  the  ruin  it  works, 
is  the  picture  of  the  destruction  that  descends  from 
heaven  on  every  life  that  forgets  God. 

TI. 

One  of  the  first  stories  I  recall  from  my  child- 
hood was  a  story  of  the  evil  of  forgetting  God.  I 
remember  the  very  spot  on  which  it  was  told  to 
me.  I  feel  the  warm  grasp  of  the  hand  which  had 
hold  of  mine  at  the  time.  I  see  once  more  the 
little  seaport  town  stretching  up  from  the  river 
mouth,  with  its  straggling  "  fisher  town "  at  one 
extremity,  and  at  the  other  its  rows  of  well-built 
streets,  and  its  town  hall  and  academy.  On  this 
occasion  we  were  standing  on  a  high  bank,  looking 
down  on  the  beautiful  shore  at  our  feet.  Across 
the  tiny  harbour,  and  along  the  shore  on  the  other 
side  of  the  river,  is  a  very  different  scene.  What 
one  sees  there  is  a  dreary  waste  of  sand.  No  grass 
grows  there,  no  trees  shadow  it,  no  house  stands 
upon  it.  It  is  a  place  forsaken  and  desolate.  It 
has  been  a  desolation  longer  than  the  oldest  in- 


Oil  the  Evil  of  Foj'getting  God.        1 89 

habitant  can  remember.  But  it  was  not  always 
desolate.  It  was  once  a  fair  estate,  rich  in  corn- 
fields and  orchards.  A  stately  mansion  stood  in 
the  midst  of  it,  and  children  played  in  the  orchards, 
and  reapers  reaped  the  corn.  But  the  lords  of 
that  fair  estate  were  an  evil  race.  They  oppressed 
the  poor,  they  despised  religion,  they  did  not 
remember  God.  They  loved  pleasure  more  than 
God,  and  the  pleasures  they  loved  were  evil.  To 
make  an  open  show  of  their  evil  ways,  they  turned 
the  day  of  the  Lord  into  a  day  of  rioting  and 
drunkenness.  And  this  evil  went  on  a  long  while. 
It  went  on  till  the  long-suffering  of  God  came  to 
an  end.  And  then,  upon  a  Sunday  evening,  and 
in  the  harvest-time,  when  the  corn  was  whitening 
for  the  reaper,  the  riot  and  wickedness  had  come 
to  a  height.  The  evil  lord  and  his  evil  guests 
were  feasting  in  the  hall  of  the  splendid  house. 
And  on  that  very  evening  there  came  a  sudden 
darkness  and  stillness  into  the  heavens,  and  out  of 
the  darkness  a  wind,  and  out  of  the  wind  a  tem- 
pest ;  and,  as  if  that  tempest  had  been  a  living 
creature,  it  lifted  the  sand  from  the  shore  in  great 
whirls  and  clouds,  and  filled  the  air  with  it,  and 
dropped  it  down  in  blinding,  suffocating  showers 
on  all  those  fields  of  corn,  and  on  that  mansion, 


iQO  The  Gentle  Heart. 

and  on  the  evil-doers  within.  And  the  fair  estate, 
with  all  its  beautiful  gardens  and  fields,  became  a 
wide-spreading  heap  of  sand  and  a  desolation,  as 
it  is  to  this  day. 

That  is  the  story,  just  as  I  heard  it  long  years 
ago.  Whether  things  happened  in  the  very  way 
the  story  tells,  whether  the  story  is  real  history,  or 
parable  drawn  from  history,  I  have  never  got  to 
know.  Either  way  it  tells  the  lesson,  and  gives 
forth  the  counsel  which  the  old  preacher  does  in 
the  last  chapter  of  Ecclesiastes.  It  tells  of  the 
evil  of  forgetting  God.  It  makes  plain  to  us  that, 
sooner  or  later,  to  every  life  that  will  not  remember 
God,  days  come  which  bring  no  pleasure,  days 
dark  with  the  terror  of  God,  when  the  heavens 
above  grow  black,  and  the  judgment  of  God 
breaks  forth  like  a  tempest,  and  everything  beau- 
tiful and  strong  and  happy  in  the  life  is  over- 
thrown, and  desolation  comes  to  house  and  health, 
and  at  last  to  life  itself. 

III. 

I  knew  a  lad  once,  who  in  five  short  years 
passed  from  days  in  which  every  day  was  a  plea- 
sure to  days  in  which  he  had  no  pleasure.  He 
passed,  in  that  short  space,  out  of  a  life  on  which 


On  the  Evil  of  Forgetting  God.      191 


the  smile  of  God  rested  to  one  on  which  His 
tempest  fell. 

Never  a  boy  had  a  happier  home  or  a  better 
upbringing.  He  had  godly  and  loving  parents. 
His  mother  taught  him  about  Christ.  His  father 
gave  him  a  good  example.  And  from  God  he  had 
splendid  health  and  an  excellent  mind.  He  had 
won  many  a  prize  at  school. 

By-and-by  it  was  time  for  him  to  go  into  busi- 
ness, and  a  fine  place  was  found  for  him  in 
Glasgow.  Allan  was  blithe  to  leave  his  school- 
tasks  and  his  country  home,  and  go  down  into  the 
life  of  the  city,  of  which  he  had  heard  so  much. 
He  did  not  think  of  the  wicked  tempters  among 
whom  his  lot  was  to  be  cast,  nor  of  the  weakness 
of  his  own  poor  heart.  But  his  father  did.  "  Re- 
member your  Creator,  Allan,"  the  old  man  said 
to  him  as  he  wrung  his  hands  in  parting.  ''  Oh, 
Allan,  my  son,  keep  the  heart  for  Him."  The 
words  did  make  an  impression  on  the  boy.  Allan 
himself  told  me,  years  after,  that  they  rung  in  his 
ears  for  a  time,  and  everything  on  the  road  seemed 
to  repeat  them.  It  was  a  beautiful  morning  in 
spring  when  he  left.  The  buds  were  glimmering 
on  the  hedges  like  little  sparks  of  green  light. 
The  clouds  were  lying  in  great    bars  across    the 


Iy2  The  Gentle  Heart. 

lower  part  of  the  heavens,  and  all  flecked  and 
fringed  with  purple.  The  boy  thought  the  clouds 
above  and  the  hedges  below  took  up  his  father's 
words,  and  said  to  him,  "  Remember  God."  The 
great-faced  clock  on  the  church  steeple  of  the 
village  where  the  coach  stopped  to  change  horses 
was  pointing  to  nine  as  the  driver  pulled  up,  and 
at  that  moment  the  bell  struck  out  the  hours. 
The  very  strokes  of  the  bell  seemed  to  ring  out 
the  words,  "  Keep  the  heart,  Allan,  for  God." 
But  by  this  time,  Allan's  heart  was  reaching  away 
towards  the  great  city.  The  thought  of  the  new 
life  he  was  to  lead,  and  the  new  pleasures  he  was 
to  taste,  drove  out  every  other  thought,  and,  by- 
and-by,  even  the  impression  and  memory  of  his 
father's  words.  He  could  think  of  nothing  but 
Glasgow  and  its  life.  And  there,  at  last,  it  came 
into  view.  From  the  shoulder  of  the  great  hill 
over  which  the  coach  had  to  pass,  he  beheld  it 
lying  in  the  morning  light.  Its  great  chimneys, 
like  trees  of  a  forest  for  number,  stood  up,  belching 
out  smoke.  On  went  the  coach.  The  last  halting- 
place  was  passed,  then  the  bridge  over  the  Clyde, 
then  the  long  suburb  between  the  bridge  and  the 
city,  and  then  Allan  was  in  Glasgow.  Horses, 
carts,  crowds,  shops,  noises  of  all  kinds,  mixed  and 


On  the  Evil  of  Forgetting  God.       193 

roared  together.  In  a  moment  more  the  coach 
was  empty,  and  the  poor  boy  was  standing  alone 
on  the  busy  pavement. 

Ah  !  if  from  that  moment  he  had  cared  to  recall 
the  words  of  his  father,  and  to  remember  God,  all 
might  have  gone  well  with  him.  But  he  let  go 
the  words.  He  did  not  care  to  have  God  in  his 
thoughts.  He  did  not  care  to  have  God  ruling 
over  him.  "  I  am  a  man  now,"  he  said  ;  "  I  can 
rule  myself." 

Not  all  at  once — bad  ways  never  come  all  at 
once — but  bit  by  bit  he  let  go  all  he  had  been 
taught  at  home — religion,  prayer,  purity,  honesty 
itself.  Wicked,  ungodly  thoughts  came  into  his 
heart,  and  he  made  them  welcome.  He  made 
friendships  with  bad  companions.  He  turned 
aside  into  evil  ways.  He  began  to  frequent  taverns 
and  drink-saloons.  He  spent  his  nights  in  sin, 
and  his  days  in  neglect  of  duty.  At  the  end  of  the 
fourth  year  he  had  lost  his  early  fondness  for  the 
church  and  Bible,  and  he  even  began  to  think 
lightly  of  his  parents  and  his  home.  Then  began 
that  darkening  of  the  heavens  which  precedes  a 
storm.  Then  came  day  after  day  in  which  he  had 
no  pleasure.  Clouds  appeared  on  the  face  of  his 
employer,  serious  looks  on  the  faces  of  his  father's 

o 


194  The  Gentle  Heart. 


friends.  Then  came  warnings  which  he  dis- 
regarded, advices  which  made  him  angry.  Then 
came  up — more  terrible  than  all — from  the  depths 
of  his  own  soul,  mutterings  of  the  anger  of  God. 
At  last  came  the  storm  itself  He  lost  the  esteem 
of  his  employer.  Then  he  lost  his  place.  His 
health  followed,  and  by-and-by  his  life. 

Before  the  buds  put  out  their  green  lights  on 
the  hedgerows  to  make  the  fifth  spring  since  he 
left  his  home,  he  was  lying  very  still  under  the 
sod,  in  the  muirland  churchyard  near  where  his 
father's  cottage  stood. 

People  tell  me  that  on  quiet  mornings,  about 
the  hour  poor  Allan  left  his  home,  they  still  hear 
the  clouds  whispering,  "  Remember  God,"  and 
even  the  little  buds  on  the  hedges  have  been  heard 
to  repeat  the  words.  But  Allan  will  hear  them 
nevermore. 

IV. 

While  my  mind  was  still  filled  with  these  recol- 
lections and  visions  of  tempest,  I  happened  to  be 
in  London,  and  went  to  see  the  Royal  Academy. 
I  saw  there  some  pictures  in  which  one  of  the 
ruins  which  that  tempest  works  is  described.  And 
I  do  not  think  I  could  better  describe  the  evil 
which  comes  into  a  fair  young  life  by  forgetting 


071  the  Evil  of  Forgetting  God.       195 

God  than  by  telling  the  story  which  those  pictures 
tell. 

A  gentle  youth  has  come  up  to  the  University. 
You  can  see  by  his  open  face  and  by  his  ruddy 
cheeks  that  he  has  come  from  a  home  that  cares 
for  him.  There  is  a  mother  there  who  has  watched 
over  him  and  prayed  for  him  all  his  days.  But 
now  he  is  away  from  her  care,  and  among  young 
men  of  his  own  age.  For  them  and  him  it  is  the 
time  to  remember  God.  I  dare  say,  if  the  letters 
his  companions  and  he  got  in  the  morning  could 
be  read,  we  should  find  in  more  than  one  of  them 
the  words  :  '^  O  my  beloved,  remember  now  thy 
Creator  in  the  days  of  thy  youth."  But  neither 
this  young  man  nor  the  companions  he  has  taken 
up  with  are  thinking  of  God.  They  are  playing 
cards.  It  is  midnight :  one  of  their  number,  un- 
used as  yet  to  this  life,  has  fallen  asleep.  The 
others  are  gambling.  The  young  man  whose  sad 
story  the  painter  has  undertaken  to  paint  is  caught 
by  this  evil.  He  has  forgotten  father  and  mother, 
home  and  innocent  days,  class-duty  and  lessons. 
What  includes  all,  he  has  forgotten  God. 

In  the  second  picture  he  is  older,  and  there  is 
not  on  his  face  the  same  glow  of  health  and  home 
life  which  we  saw  first.     He  is  not  at  college  now, 


196  The  Gentle  Heart. 

nor  where  his  college  classes  should  have  led  him. 
He  is  at  a  place,  the  most  evil  for  old  or  young, 
for  rich  or  poor,  for  prince  or  peasant,  to  be.  He 
is  at  a  race-course.  Coarse,  brutish-looking,  eager 
men  are  thrusting  in  their  betting-books  to  him 
from  the  outside  crowd.  He  does  not  yet  know 
all  the  evil  of  their  evil  ways.  He  does  not  see 
yet  that  they  are  cheats  and  rogues,  who  want 
him  to  gamble  his  riches  into  their  pockets.  Alas 
for  him  !  And  alas  for  the  dear  mother  who  is 
praying  for  him  !  He  has  exchanged  the  inno- 
cent joys  of  home,  and  pure  delights  of  college, 
for  the  society  of  chaffy  idlers,  and  the  coarse 
pleasures  of  these  red-faced,  shabby,  vulgar  men. 
And  he  is  falling  into  their  evil  traps.  He  is 
writing  down  their  tempting  bets.  And  in  his 
blindness  he  does  not  see  that  the  bets  he  is  ac- 
cepting shall  one  day  make  the  heavens  black 
above  him,  and  bring  down  a  storm  upon  his 
head. 

And  too  soon  that  storm  begins  to  fall.  In  the 
third  picture,  when  we  next  see  him,  several  years 
have  passed.  He  is  married  and  in  a  house  of 
his  own.  Beside  him  is  a  beautiful  wife  with  two 
young  children.  He  is  in  a  room  filled  with  beau- 
tiful things.     If  we  could  fix  our  eyes  on  the  room 


On  the  Evil  of  Forgetting  God.      197 

only,  or  go  out  and  wander  about  the  beautiful 
grounds,  we  should  say,  "  Everything  here  has  a 
look  of  peace  and  happiness."  But  there  is  neither 
peace  nor  happiness  in  the  soul  of  its  master. 
Days  have  come  to  him  now  in  which  he  has  no 
pleasure.  He  will  nevermore  have  pleasure  in 
all  the  days  of  his  life  that  are  to  come.  A  terrible 
knowledge  is  in  his  soul.  He  has  gambled  away 
the  last  shilling  he  had.  He  has  gambled  away 
his  beautiful  home  and  the  bread  of  his  wife  and 
children.  He  has  gambled  himself  into  debts 
which  he  will  never  be  able  to  pay.  And  here, 
within  the  door  of  this  beautiful  room,  darkening 
it  by  their  shadow,  between  the  poor  young  mother 
who  cannot  understand  what  has  taken  place,  and 
the  miserable  father  who  understands  too  well,  are 
two  officers  to  take  him  away  to  prison.  The 
tempest  he  has  brought  upon  himself  has  burst 
out  upon  him.  He  gave  his  young  life,  his  strong 
manhood,  his  love,  his  time,  his  money,  to  evil, 
and  to  evil  ways.  He  sowed  the  wind  :  he  is 
reaping  the  whirlwind.  It  has  swept  joy  and 
peace  out  of  his  life.  It  is  about  to  sweep  away 
his  liberty  :  he  must  go  to  jail.  When  he  is  lying 
in  jail,  and  in  misery  there,  the  same  tempest  will 
drive  wife  and  children  out  of  their  beautiful  home. 


198  The  Gentle  Heart. 

Nothing  will  be  left  to  them  but  shame  and  sor- 
row.    Their  life,  like  his,  will  be  a  ruin. 

In  the  closing  picture,  the  last  burst  of  the 
tempest  has  come  upon  him.  He  has  got  out  of 
jail,  but  everything  beautiful  in  his  life  has  been 
destroyed.  His  whole  life  is  a  ruin.  He  is 
locking  the  door  of  the  poor  bedroom  in  which 
he  sleeps.  He  bends  eagerly  to  listen,  turns 
the  key  gently  lest  his  wife  should  hear.  His 
baby's  cradle  is  near,  but  it  appeals  to  him  in 
vain.  A  pistol  is  lying  on  the  table.  In 
another  moment  he  will  have  destroyed  his  life 
with  it ;  and  his  very  body  shall  be  a  ruin. 


NEVER   TOO  LATE   TO  MEND. 


NEVER  TOO  LATE  TO  MEND. 


THAT  was  a  very  sad  story  which  the  painter 
painted.  But  the  painter  has  not  told  it  all. 
The  saddest  part  of  the  story  is  this,  that  there 
was  a  way  of  escape  even  for  that  poor,  lost  soul. 
And  he  did  not  remember  there  was  such  a  way. 
Having  forgotten  God,  he  had  forgotten  also  every 
good  thing  which  had  ever  been  said  to  him  con- 
cerning God. 

But  there  was  really  a  way  of  escape.  He 
might  have  risen  out  of  his  poverty,  and  his 
shame,  and  his  sin,  if  he  had  remembered  this 
way.  It  is  the  way  Jesus  came  to  open  up.  It 
is  the  way  by  which  He  led  back  the  poor  lost 
women,  the  poor  lost  publicans  of  Judea  to  God. 
It  is  the  way  on  which  He  is  still  going  forth  to 
seek  and  to  save  the  lost — a  way  all  paved  with 


202  The  Gentle  Heart. 

His  love — the  blessed  way  of  repentance  and 
prayer. 

I  will  tell  you  a  story,  which  is  not  a  painter's 
story,  but  one  of  real  life.  And  it  begins  just 
where  the  other  ends. 

In  the  city  of  London,  about  sixty  years  ago, 
lived  a  man  who,  like  the  youth  in  the  painter's 
story,  had  been  forgetting  God.  But  he  was  like 
him  in  little  else.  He  had  to  work  for  his  bread. 
He  had  not  spent  his  wages  in  gambling,  nor  in 
attending  horse-races,  nor  in  any  evil  way.  The 
evil  in  his  life  was  only  this :  he  had  ceased  to 
remember  God. 

God  was  not  in  all  his  thoughts.  He  went  out ; 
he  came  in  ;  he  lay  down ;  he  rose  up,  and  never 
asked  God  to  be  with  him,  or  to  watch  over  him, 
or  to  bless  him.  He  tried  to  live  and  be  a 
husband,  father,  and  workman  without  God. 

But  although  he  had  forgotten  God,  God  had 
not  forgotten  him.  In  mercy  He  sent  forth  His 
storm  to  smite  him,  and  he  was  smitten ;  and  days 
came  to  him  in  which  he  had  no  pleasure ;  and 
work  failed  him  ;  and  poverty  descended  on  him  ; 
and  his  home  was  broken  up.  Everything  had  to 
be  sold  for  bread ;  and  still  there  came  no  work. 
They  went   to  a  poorer  house  ;  then  to  a  house 


Never  too  Late  to  Mend.  203 

poorer  still.  At  last,  one  evening,  they  found 
themselves  in  a  miserable  cellar,  without  fire  or 
food,  with  nothing  even  to  sit  upon  except  a  block 
of  wood.  The  children  were  crying  for  bread. 
''  Bread,  father  !"  they  cried  in  their  hunger — and 
there  was  no  bread.  The  cry  went  into  the  soul 
of  the  man,  and  filled  him  with  despair.  And  an 
evil  thought  came  to  him  on  the  wings  of  the 
despair ;  and,  yielding  to  that  evil  thought,  he 
said  to  himself,  as  the  young  man  in  the  painter's 
story  had  said  :  "  It  is  more  than  I  can  bear  ;  in 
the  morning  I  shall  hide  myself  from  these  cries 
and  from  this  poverty  which  does  not  end,  in  the 
friendly  depths  of  the  river."  And  in  the  morning 
he  left  his  home  with  that  evil  thought  in  his  soul. 
He  turned  from  his  wife  and  children,  and  set  his 
face  towards  the  river. 

It  was  Sunday.  The  streets  were  full  of  people 
going  to  morning  service.  He  turned  into  a  side 
street  to  escape  them,  but  there  were  church-goers 
there  also  ;  and,  in  a  back  court  in  that  street,  a 
church.  Perhaps  it  was  the  memory  of  days 
when  he  also  went  to  church ;  perhaps  it  was  the 
thought,  "  I  am  going  into  the  presence  of  God, 
I  will  worship  with  His  people  once  more  before 
I  go."      He  never  could  tell  how  it  came  about; 


204  The  Gentle  Heart. 

but,  ill-dressed  and  unwashed  though  he  was,  and 
with  this  evil  thought  in  his  heart,  he  turned  with 
the  stream  of  worshippers  into  that  back  court, 
and  into  the  church  there,  and  sat  down  in  a 
corner,  in  the  shadow,  where  he  could  hear  with- 
out being  seen. 

Mr.  Parsons,  of  Leeds,  was  to  preach  that  day ; 
and  this  happened  to  be  his  text : — "  When  the 
poor  and  the  needy  seek  water,  and  there  is  none, 
and  their  tongue  faileth  for  thirst,  I  the  Lord  will 
hear  them,  I  the  God  of  Israel  will  not  forsake 
them.  I  will  open  rivers  in  high  places,  and 
fountains  in  the  midst  of  the  valleys.  I  will  make 
the  wilderness  a  pool  of  water,  and  the  dry  land 
springs  of  water."  And  from  that  text  he  preached 
a  sermon  on  deserts^  and  on  putting  the  God  of 
Israel  to  the  test  for  the  springs  in  the  desert. 
And  among  other  things  he  said — and  the  poor 
man  in  the  corner  thought  he  looked  straight  at 
him  as  he  spoke — "  Oh,  my  poor  brother,  thou 
also  art  in  a  desert,  in  the  bleak,  bitter  desert  of 
poverty.  Thou  findest  it  hard  to  be  without 
money,  or  work,  or  bread.  Thou  thinkest,  per- 
haps, in  thy  heart,  God  has  set  me  here  for  ever ; 
there  is  no  way  of  escape.  Hast  thou  ever  put 
the  God  of  Israel  to  the  test  ?     What  if  thou  art 


Never  too  Late  to  Mend.  205 

also  in  a  worse  desert — in  the  desert  where  the 
soul  has  forgotten  God  ?  And  what  if  thy  poverty 
be  sent  to  thee  to  bring  God  back  to  thy  remem- 
brance, and  thyself  back  to  God  ?  Put  the  God 
of  Israel  to  the  test.  Prove  Him  and  see  whether 
He  will  not  turn  thy  wilderness  into  a  pool,  and 
thy  dry  land  into  springs  of  water." 

It  was  as  if  God  had  spoken.  The  words  of  the 
preacher  came  into  the  down-crushed  heart  of  the 
man,  and  a  good  thought  began  to  battle  with  the 
evil  thought  in  that  heart  j  and  when  he  came  out 
he  turned  his  back  to  the  river,  and  set  his  face 
once  more  to  his  home. 

At  home  there  was  still  the  hunger ;  the  cries 
for  bread  were  there  just  as  before.  But  the  evil 
thought  was  gone  from  the  heart  of  the  father, 
and  his  soul  was  groping  along  the  way  to  God. 
Taking  courage  from  what  he  had  heard,  he  said 
to  his  wife,  "  Liza,  suppose  we  read  a  bit  to- 
gether?" That  brought  the  tears  to  her  eyes. 
The  Bible  he  had  given  her  on  their  wedding  day 
had  long  since  been  sold  for  bread ;  but  there 
happened  to  be,  on  some  shelf  in  that  cellar,  some 
leaves  of  the  Old  Testament  left  by  those  who 
lived  there  before  ;  and  in  these  they  read.  Then, 
in  a  Httle  while,  when  he  had  found  more  courage, 


2o6  The  Gentle  Heart. 

he  said,  "Suppose  we  try  to  pray?"  and  the 
mother  and  children  knelt  down  beside  him,  and 
he  prayed.  Out  of  the  depths  he  cried  unto  God, 
"  O  God,  my  father's  God,  God  of  my  childhood, 
hear  my  cry.  I  have  forgotten  Thee  \  and  Thou 
hast  brought  my  children,  and  my  wife,  and  myself 
into  tliis  wilderness,  where  there  is  neither  work 
nor  bread.  O  God,  for  Jesus'  sake,  have  mercy 
upon  us ;  and  for  Thy  mercy's  sake  cause  springs 
to  arise  in  this  desert."  Then  they  all  rose  from 
their  knees.  They  were  still  hungry,  but  they 
began  to  feel  that  a  little  gleam  of  heaven  had 
shone  in  upon  them.  And  by-and-by  night  came, 
and  blessed  sleep,  and  the  cries  for  bread  were 
stilled. 

On  the  very  morning  after  this  poor  man  had 
put  the  God  of  Israel  to  the  test,  and  when  his 
soul  had  turned  from  all  evil  thoughts,  and  from 
forgetting  God,  he  received  a  letter  from  a  friend. 
'^  There  is  a  great  order,"  the  letter  said,  "come 
to  such  a  shop.  If  you  go  there  before  ten  o'clock 
you  are  sure  of  work."  And  in  a  corner  of  the 
letter  a  half-sovereign  was  folded  up. 

And  from  that  moment  the  heavens  grew  clear 
for  him  and  his.  Just  as  Jesus  stilled  the  black, 
howling  tempest  on  Galilee,  and  made  a  calm  for 


Never  too  Late  to  Mend.  207 

the  fishermen  of  old,  so  He  stilled  the  tempest 
and  made  peace  and  joy  for  this  poor  man  and 
his  house.  The  money  brought  bread  to  the 
children ;  and  before  the  hour  named  in  the  letter 
he  was  engaged,  in  the  shop  it  told,  him  of,  for  a 
long  spell  of  work.  And  happiness  came  back  to 
the  home.  And  by-and-by  it  was  with  that  home 
as  in  days  long  past,  and  God  was  remembered  in 
it,  and  God  blessed  His  servant  at  its  head ;  and 
work  came  to  him  without  stint,  and  favour  of 
masters  along  with  the  work.  More  wonderful 
still,  the  workman  became  manager ;  the  manager 
became  master  ;  and — better  than  all — he  and  his 
wife  and  his  children  became  true  servants  of  God. 

"  It  is  never  too  late  to  mend."  In  whatever 
wilderness  men  lose  themselves,  the  way  out  of 
it  is  to  remember  God.  Remember  God  if  days 
should  ever  come  to  thee  in  which  thou  hast  no 
pleasure,  and  He  will  come  to  thy  help.  Re- 
member God  if  evil  thoughts  have  already  come 
into  thy  heart,  and  He  will  send  thoughts  of 
heaven  in  their  stead.  Pray  to  Jesus  and  He  will 
come  into  your  life  and  still  the  tempest  and  turn 
trouble  into  joy. 

Better  still,  dear  children,  to  whom  evil  days  of 
the  kind  I  have  been  describing  have  never  yet 


2o8  The  Gentle  Heart. 

come,  while  it  is  still  morning  in  your  life,  remem- 
ber God.  Remembering  God  will  keep  evil  days 
away  from  you  for  ever.  It  will  keep  you  young 
and  innocent  to  the  end  of  your  years.  And  by 
the  mercy  of  God,  it  will  open  the  door  of  heaven 
for  you  when  your  years  here  have  come  to  an 
end. 


man  cannot  live  by  bread 
alone:' 


"MAN  CANNOT  LIVE  BY  BREAD  ALONE." 

I. 

IN  an  old  volume  in  my  library  there  is  a  wood- 
cut which  I  sometimes  study.  It  is  the  picture 
of  a  little  boy  at  a  pastrycook's  window.  He  is  on 
his  way  to  school.  The  morning  is  dark  and  stormy. 
The  pavement  is  glistening  with  rain.  But  neither 
wind  nor  rain  can  force  him  to  pass  this  window. 
Inside  are  piles  of  fancy  bread,  and  cakes,  and 
candies,  and  all  sweet  things.  And  there  he  stands, 
in  the  raw  morning  air,  his  right  arm  resting  on  the 
brass  fence,  his  eyes  fixed,  his  little  heart  going  out 
in  earnest  longing  for  the  delicious  things  inside 
that  window.  Not  that  he  is  a  poor,  ill-fed,  hungry 
boy.  His  plump,  round  cheeks,  his  cosey  cloak, 
and  the  end  of  a  roll  of  bread  sticking  out  of  his 
pocket,  tell  that  he  is  well  fed  and  well  cared  for  at 
home.     But  he  is  thinking  to  himself,  as  he  stands 


212  The  Gentle  Heart. 

looking  in  through  that  window:  ''What  are  rolls  of 
home  bread,  or  home  itself,  or  the  school  to  which 
I  am  going,  to  the  sweets  and  sugar  cakes  heaped 
inside  there  ?  " 

That  is  the  way  with  boys.  For  a  long  while  of 
their  lives  they  think  that  things  to  eat,  especially 
sweet  things,  are  the  best  things  of  Hfe.  Nuts 
shaken  from  the  trees,  berries  gathered  from  the 
bush,  apples  dropped  in  the  orchard,  fish  caught  in 
the  river  by  their  own  rod  :  boys  think  that  life  has 
nothing  better  than  things  like  these.  To  go  away 
to  the  woods  or  the  rivers,  to  kindle  a  fire  of  leaves 
and  dried  branches  of  trees,  to  roast  the  nuts  and 
the  apples  and  the  fish,  and  eat  them  without  knife 
or  fork,  without  table  napkin  or  table,  as  hunters 
and  wild  Indians  do :  that  seems  to  boys  the  very 
best  joy  that  earth  can  give.  If  they  were  kings, 
and  had  as  much  money  as  they  could  tell,  they 
would  have  dinners  of  that  sort  every  day. 

II. 

And  boys  who  think  in  this  way  are  not  altogether 
wrong.  Things  to  eat  are  really  good  things. 
And  the  good  Lord  who  made  us  has  made  food 
sweet  to  our  taste.  Sometimes  it  will  seem,  even  to 
grown-up  people,  that  bread  must  be  one  of  the 


''Man  Cannot  Live  by  Bread  AloneP  213 

best  things  in  the  world.  When  I  see  hungry 
children  on  the  streets,  I  cannot  help  thinking 
what  a  blessing  a  good  dinner  every  day  would  be 
to  them.  And  when  I  pass  old  men  and  women 
whose  white,  pinched  faces  show  that  they  have 
tasted  little  food  that  day,  I  cannot  help  thinking 
what  a  blessed  thing  good  food  would  be  to  them. 
And  I  think  the  same  thing  as  often  as  I  read 
some  of  the  sea  stories  which  the  newspapers  tell. 

Shipwrecked  crews  on  lone  rafts  far  out  at  sea, 
with  never  a  sail  in  sight,  with  not  even  a  bag  of 
hard  biscuit  on  board— driven  to  eat  their  very 
shoes  for  food — with  hunger  tugging  at  every  heart, 
and  at  last  with  wild  looks  at  each  other,  as  the 
hunger  is  making  them  mad,  and  they  are  silently 
beginning  to  think  that  the  lot  must  be  cast,  and 
the  death  of  one  become  the  life  of  all — in  cases 
like  that  I  do  not  wonder  that  people  come  to 
believe  that  land  with  birds  on  it,  or  a  ship  with 
food  in  it,  or  a  bagful  of  bread,  would  be  the  best 
thing  the  life  of  man  could  see  or  taste. 

But  I  intend  to  show  you  that  we  cannot,  even 
in  such  cases  as  these,  be  satisfied,  or  made  happy, 
or  wise,  or  strong,  by  bread  alone.  If  we  had  all 
the  bread  the  world  contains,  or  all  the  money  of 
the  world  to  buy  it  with— if  we  were  always  able 


214  The  Gentle  Heart. 

to  go  into  woods  and  rivers  and  find  food  for 
ourselves,  with  companions  whom  we  loved,  we  still 
could  not  have  all  that  our  hearts  and  lives  need 
to  have.  By  eating  and  drinking,  by  feasting  with 
great  people,  or  with  wild  people,  whether  on  sea 
or  land,  in  hunting-fields  or  palaces,  neither  boys 
nor  men  could  be  perfectly  happy  or  contented  or 
well. 

III. 

I  read  a  story  once  of  some  sailors  on  just  such 
a  raft  as  I  have  referred  to.  Their  very  dreams 
were  of  food,  of  which  they  had  none.  As  they 
sat  there  on  the  raft — straining  their  eyes  often  to 
look  for  passing  ships — visions  of  food  of  all  kinds, 
of  ripe  fruits,  and  rich  meats,  and  pastry,  and 
bread  home-baked,  floated  before  their  souls. 
And  each  man  said  to  himself,  "  Oh  for  one  loaf 
such  as  my  mother  baked  for  us  in  the  early 
days  ! "  But  the  days  went  past  and  no  ship  ap- 
peared, and  one  by  one,  for  want  of  bread,  they 
began  to  die.  After  dreadful  sufferings,  the  two 
who  survived  drifted  to  an  island  on  which  there 
were  friendly  natives  and  plenty  of  food.  One 
died,  but  the  other  lived  and  spent  some  years  on 
that  island.  He  had  food  as  much  as  he  could 
eat,  but  he  was  not  happy.     He  hunted,  he  fished, 


"Man  Cannot  Live  by  Bread  Alone.''  215 

he  learned  to  catch  all  kinds  of  birds.  He  Hved 
in  tents ;  he  was  treated  as  a  chiefs  son.  But  he 
was  not  happy.  And  one  day,  when  an  English 
ship  happened  to  pass  the  island,  he  threw  himself 
into  the  sea,  and  swam  to  the  side,  and  said,  "Take 
me  on  board,  and  take  me  home  to  England ;  I 
will  endure  hunger  and  poverty  and  hard  living 
rather  than  live  longer  here."  The  man  had  as 
much  food  as  he  could  eat — and  on  the  lone  raft 
no  doubt  he  thought  food  the  best  thing ;  but  you 
see  he  had  found  out  that  a  man  cannot  live — 
cannot  be  happy— by  bread  alone. 

IV. 

I  always  remember  the  way  a  young  girl  who 
lived  where  I  once  lived  came  to  learn  this  truth. 
Her  home  was  a  lonely  farmhouse  away  up  among 
hills,  and  miles  away  from  village  or  town.  Living 
where  she  did,  she  knew  nothing  about  the  plea- 
sures which  town  children  have.  No  panorama, 
nor  concert  of  sacred  music,  is  ever  seen  or  heard 
near  such  places.  But  she  was  not  without  plea- 
sures ;  and  there  was  one  so  sweet,  so  always  new, 
that  she  thought  it  must  be  the  very  best  pleasure 
in  the  world.  About  a  mile  from  the  farm  was  a 
hill  on  which  gorse  and  heather  and  wild  violets 


2i6  The  Gentle  Heart. 

grew  all  the  summer.  Here  and  there  were  nut- 
trees,  but  the  ground  was  mostly  covered  with 
bramble  and  bilberry  bushes.  The  hours  she 
spent  there  were  the  happiest  in  her  life ;  and  she 
thought  a  girl  who  had  a  bramble  and  bilberry  hill 
had  nothing  more  to  wish  for. 

One  day,  in  harvest  time,  she  was  at  home  with 
her  mother  and  grandmother,  and  grandmother 
suddenly  turned  ill.  It  was  a  long  way  to  the 
doctor's,  and  there  was  nobody  to  send  but  this 
child.  The  farmer  and  the  servants  were  away 
helping  a  neighbour ;  the  mother  could  not  leave 
the  sick  grandmother ;  and  this  girl  of  ten  years 
old  must  hurry  away  for  the  doctor.  She  lost  no 
time  in  preparation ;  she  dearly  loved  her  grand- 
mother, and  her  little  feet  seemed  to  fly  along  the 
road.  It  was  the  road  on  which  the  bilberry  hill 
was,  but  she  was  not  thinking  of  that.  She  was 
thinking  only  of  the  errand  on  which  she  was  sent, 
and  of  poor  sick  grandmamma  at  home ;  and  she 
was  hurrying  along  as  fast  as  her  feet  could  carry 
her.  But  just  as  she  came  within  sight  of  the  hill, 
at  the  very  bend  of  the  road  where  the  gap  in  the 
hedge  was  that  led  up  to  it,  she  saw,  not  a  hundred 
yards  off,  a  mad  bull  tearing  along,  and  coming 
right  up  to  meet  her. 


"Man  Cannot  Live  by  Bread  Alone!'  217 

She  could  not  go  back.  That  never  entered 
into  her  mind.  To  go  forward  was  death.  But 
here  was  her  bilberry  hill.  She  darted  to  the  gap 
in  the  hedge  through  which  she  had  so  often  passed. 
She  fled  up  through  the  trees,  thinking  there  might 
be  some  outlet,  higher  up,  to  another  part  of  the 
road.  There  was  no  such  outlet.  A  river  on  one 
side,  a  high  close  fence  on  the  other,  shut  her  in. 
She  could  only  leave  by  the  way  she  came ;  and 
there,  to  her  horror,  stood  the  furious  bull.  A 
whole  hour  went  past,  afternoon  was  melting 
into  evening,  and  still  she  was  a  prisoner.  The 
bull  had  planted  himself  right  at  the  entrance, 
glaring  up  at  her  with  a  savage  look.  In  that 
hour  what  whirls  of  thought  drove  through 
her  soul  !  She  thought  of  her  poor  old  grand- 
mother, of  the  pain  she  was  suffering,  of  the 
possibility  of  her  dying  before  the  doctor  could 
be  brought.  She  thought  of  her  mother's  anxiety, 
At  first  she  was  sick  with  fear.  Then  that  passed 
away,  and  she  grew  hungry.  The  hedges  were 
covered  with  her  favourite  brambles;  late  bil- 
berries also  were  hanging  ripe  at  her  feet  and  all 
around  her.  But  she  could  not  touch  them. 
What  were  bilberries  or  brambles,  or  any  other 
kind    of   fruit,    or    food    to    her   now?      It   was 


2i8  The  Gentle  Heart. 

liberty  she  wanted — liberty  to  go  her  message — 
liberty  to  bring  help  to  the  dear  sick  one  at  home. 
She  never  before  thought  there  could  be  anything 
better  in  life  than  a  bramble  and  bilberry  hill ;  but 
she  learned  it  that  day. 

Her  whole  young  heart  cried  up  to  God  for 
hberty  to  reach  the  doctor.  Although  she  was  in 
mortal  terror  of  the  bull,  she  saw  and  remembered 
afterwards  things  as  if  she  had  no  fear.  She  saw 
a  hare  running  through  a  little  space  in  the  high 
fence,  and  wished  she  were  a  hare.  She  saw  the  birds 
flying  about  overhead  perfectly  free,  and  wished 
she  were  a  bird.  She  cried  with  vexation;  and 
what  she  cried  for,  although  she  could  not  put 
it  in  words  at  the  time,  was  liberty  to  do  her  duty. 
"  Oh,  to  be  out  of  this  trap  ! " — that  was  the  shape 
her  prayer  took.  "  O  Lord  Jesus,  send  some  one 
to  drive  away  the  bull ! "  And  by-and-by,  when 
the  shadows  of  night  began  to  fall,  and  while  it  was 
still  not  too  late  to  bring  the  doctor,  the  Lord 
heard  her  cry,  and  sent  some  neighbours  to  let  her 
free.  But  that  day  she  learned — and  so  learned  as 
never  to  forget — that  hills  of  brambles  and  bil- 
berries cannot  make  people  happy,  and  that 
times  may  come,  even  in  a  child's  life,  when  she 
may  be   where  the  ground  is  covered    with    her 


"Man  Can  J  lot  Live  by  Bread  Alone!'  219 

favourite  berries,  and  she  not  able  to  touch  a  single 
one. 

V. 

One  day,  a  hunter  was  returning  to  his  home,  tired 
with  the  chase  and  faint  with  hunger.  As  he  came 
near  the  tents  in  which  his  family  lived,  the  air  came 
about  him  filled  with  the  fragrance  of  the  richest 
soup.  He  quickened  his  steps.  New  light  came 
into  his  eyes.  The  taste  of  the  rich  soup  was 
already  in  his  mouth.  And  just  as  he  pushed 
back  the  curtain  and  stepped  inside  the  tent,  his 
brother  was  preparing  to  serve  it  out.  The  brother 
had  gathered  it  and  prepared  it,  and  cooked  it,  and 
it  was  all  his  own.  And  it  was  the  only  food  in 
the  tent  that  day.  The  famishing  hunter  said  to 
his  brother,  "Jacob,  let  me  have  some."  But 
Jacob  was  not  a  kind  brother,  and  he  said,  "  If  you 
buy  it,  you  shall  have  some."  Esau  at  that  time 
was  fonder  of  food  than  anything  else,  and  he  was 
almost  dying  with  hunger.  So  he  said,  *'I  will 
give  you  anything  you  like,  Jacob ;  but  let  me 
have  the  soup."  Then  Jacob  said,  "Give  me  your 
birthright."  It  seemed  at  the  time  like  asking 
nothing  at  all.  The  brothers  were  twins,  and  Esau 
had  been  born  first.  And  Jacob  could  never  get 
sorrow  for  that  out  of  his  mind.     He  was  always 


220  The  Gentle  Heart. 

wishing  he  had  been  born  first.  And  now  when 
this  chance  came,  and  his  elder  brother  famishing 
and  begging  for  food,  he  could  not  let  the  chance 
go.  "  Let  me  be  elder  brother,  Esau,  and  you 
shall  have  the  soup."  Esau  thought  a  very  little 
over  it — too  little,  as  he  came  to  see  afterwards. 
He  said  to  himself,  ''  What's  the  birthright  to  me 
just  now?"  He  should  not  have  said  that.  It 
was  God  who  had  made  him  elder  brother.  It  was 
despising  the  gift  of  God.  "What's  the  birthright 
to  me  just  now?"  he  said,  still  speaking  to  himself. 
"  It  is  food  I  want.  I  am  dying  for  want  of  food, 
and  here  is  food,  and  the  best  sort  of  food,  that 
will  be  life,  and  strength,  and  joy  to  me.  I  must 
have  it ;  I  cannot  live  without  it."  Then  he  turned 
to  Jacob  and  said,  "I  give  you  the  birthright — 
give  me  the  food."  He  was  a  grown-up  lad  at  that 
time.  And  there  was  no  more  said  about  it  then. 
But  when  years  had  gone  past,  and  the  two  lads 
were  men,  a  day  came  when  their  old  father  had 
to  acknowledge  the  birthright,  and  say  with  his 
dying  lips  which  son  was  to  be  chief  When  that 
day  came,  the  old  father  was  blind  and  seemed 
near  to  die.  Jacob  said  to  his  mother,  ''  I  bought 
the  birthright  from  Esau."  And  his  mother  took 
him  one  forenoon,  when  Esau  was  out  hunting,  and 


''Man  Cannot  Live  by  Bread  Alone ^  221 

dressed  him  like  Esau,  and  made  the  bhnd  old 
father  think  it  was  the  eldest  son.  And  Jacob  the 
younger  got  the  blessing.  And  the  blessing  made 
the  birthright  his.  Then  Esau  saw  the  folly  he 
had  done.  He  had  sold  for  a  red  mess  what  God 
had  given  him.  He  cried  like  a  child.  "  Give  me 
a  second  birthright/'  he  said  to  his  poor  vexed 
father,  when  he  came  and  found  what  had  been 
done.  But  there  was  only  one  blessing  to  give, 
and  Jacob  had  got  it.  In  that  hour  Esau  saw  that 
man  does  not  live  by  bread  alone. 

VI. 

In  the  great  kingdom  of  Babylon  there  once 
reigned  a  king  who  thought  man  could  live  by  bread 
alone.  And  one  day  he  invited  a  thousand  of  his 
lords  and  ladies,  princes  and  princesses,  to  a  great 
feast  in  his  palace.  Every  one  was  dressed  in  gold 
and  silver,  purple,  scarlet,  and  fine  linen.  There 
was  music  floating  all  round.  Slaves  came  out 
and  in  carrying  meat  and  wine  and  flowers  and 
fruit.  And  the  tables  were  filled  with  guests.  But 
when  kings  have  had  many  banquets  they  begin  to 
be  tiresome,  and  this  king  thought  he  would  do  a 
thing  at  this  feast  which  might  keep  the  tiresome- 
ness away.     He  remembered  that  Nebuchadnezzar 


222  The  Gentle  Heart. 

his  father  had  once  been  to  Jerusalem,  and  had 
fought  against  the  city  and  taken  away  all  the  gold 
and  silver  vessels  of  the  temple  there.  So  Bel- 
shazzar  the  son  commanded  those  gold  and  silver 
vessels  to  be  sent  for  and  brought  to  his  great  feast. 
And  everybody  praised  the  Hebrew  vessels,  and 
they  were  filled  with  wine,  and  went  round  all  the 
guests,  and  every  lord  and  lady  drank  wine  out 
of  these  vessels.  And  the  king  said,  "  Was  never 
a  feast  like  this;  this  is  life,  this  is  blessedness." 
But  the  great  God  at  that  very  moment  thrust 
out  His  hand  from  the  darkness,  and  with  His 
finger  wrote  these  words  on  the  wall  in  a  lan- 
guage neither  the  king  nor  his  lords  could  under- 
stand : — "  O  foolish  feaster,  you  need  righteousness 
more  than  bread  to  make  you  happy.  The  God 
whose  temple  your  father  robbed  of  these  vessels  has 
numbered  the  hours  of  your  kingdom.  You  have 
been  tried  as  a  king  and  found  wanting.  And  your 
kingdom  is  about  to  be  given  to  others."  Although 
for  a  long  while  nobody  could  read  the  words,  it 
was  something  terrible  to  have  them  written  on  the 
wall  in  that  way.  Where  now  was  the  happiness 
the  king  had  in  his  gold  vessels  and  his  wine? 
It  was  gone.  He  was  filled  with  terror.  All  the 
glory  of  his  banquet  disappeared.     What  did  that 


''Man  Camiot  Live  by  Bread  Aloner    223 

awful  hand  coming  out  of  the  darkness  mean? 
What  were  those  terrible  letters  on  the  wall  ?  His 
face  became  white,  his  knees  shook,  the  chill  of 
death  came  over  him.  Before  that  feast  was  ended 
he  and  his  lords  and  ladies  learned  that  man 
cannot  live  by  banquets  alone,  nor  by  drinking 
wine  in  vessels  of  gold  and  silver,  nor  by  any  other 
kind  of  feasting  which  is  feasting  on  what  the  Bible 
calls  "  bread  alone." 

VII. 

Going  back  to  the  woodcut  I  described  at  the 
outset,  I  will  make  one  more  remark  suggested  by 
it.  Sometimes  when  I  look  at  it,  it  seems  to  say 
to  me  :  "  It  is  not  little  schoolboys  only  who  stop 
to  look  in  at  windows.  We  are  all,  big  people  as 
well  as  little  people,  like  the  boy  at  the  window, 
only,  as  we  grow  older,  the  window  changes,  and 
the  things  inside  change  as  well.  Instead  of  the 
pastrycook's  window,  it  is  that  of  some  neighbour 
richer  than  ourselves,  or  it  is  the  avenue  leading 
up  to  some  noble  mansion,  or  it  is  the  door  open- 
ing into  some  public  banquet,  or  it  is  a  marriage 
party,  or  a  general's  staff,  or  an  association  of 
artists,  or  a  fellowship  of  learned  men,  or  the 
partnership  of  a  merchant  company,  or  a  circle  of 
high  ladies  of  fashion." 


224  1^^^^  Gentle  Heart. 

Yes,  these  are  the  windows  through  which,  as 
we  grow  older,  we  look.  And  as  the  windows 
through  which  we  look  are  different,  the  things 
inside  are  different  too.  It  is  a  place  inside 
those  circles  of  rich,  learned,  and  fashionable 
people.  It  is  possession  of  the  things  which  make 
this  life  seem  so  beautiful.  It  is  the  wedding 
coaches,  the  gay  dresses,  the  high  companions,  the 
honourable  titles,  the  splendid  banquets,  the  mag- 
nificent homes.  Ah,  there  are  boys  and  girls  who 
are  now  as  young  as  the  boy  in  my  woodcut,  and 
as  fond  of  looking  into  pastrycooks'  windows,  who 
will  come  to  think,  as  they  grow  older,  and  look 
through  other  kinds  of  windows  at  other  sweet 
things  in  life,  how  much  better  it  would  be  to  be 
inside,  among  the  rich,  gay  people,  than  out,  and 
how  poor  and  homely  their  lives  are  when  compared 
with  the  lives  at  which  they  look.  But  it  will  be  a 
vain  thought  whenever  it  comes.  To  have  all  the 
fine  things  we  see  in  the  possession  of  others,  to 
dwell  in  stately  houses,  to  have  troops  of  servants 
waiting  on  us,  to  have  carriages  at  our  call,  and 
great  people  for  our  friends,  and  great  honours  to 
our  name,  that  is  not  our  life.  There  are  thou- 
sands and  tens  of  thousands  who  have  attained  to 
all  that  and  are  not  so  happy  as  they  were  before. 


''Man  Cannot  Live  by  Bread  Alone''  225 

In  one  of  the  iron  districts  of  our  country,  about 
forty  years  ago,  lived  two  young  married  people. 
The  husband  was  a  blacksmith,  and  very  indus- 
trious and  temperate.  The  wife  was  thrifty  and 
otherwise  good.  They  were  happy,  but  not  per- 
fectly happy.  He,  especially,  kept  looking  into  the 
lives  of  the  people  who  gave  him  work,  and  wish- 
ing he  had  comforts  like  theirs.  Many  a  time,  as 
he  sat  in  a  corner  of  his  forge  taking  the  dinner 
which  his  wife  brought  to  him,  he  would  say  to 
her :  "'  I  would  have  a  carriage  like  this  one,  and 
a  grand  house  like  that  one,  and  great  banquets 
like  theirs,  and  servants  and  rich  dresses  for  you." 

And  it  really  came  out  so  that  before  twenty 
years  were  over  he  had  all  these  things  which  he 
had  so  eagerly  hungered  after.  He  had  a  fine 
mansion  to  live  in,  a  fine  carriage  to  ride  in,  fine 
dresses  for  his  wife,  great  feasts  for  his  friends,  and 
hundreds  of  people  to  serve  him.  A  friend  of 
mine  was  once  invited  to  one  of  his  parties 
and  asked  to  stay  over  night.  There  was  a  grand 
banquet,  and  lords  and  ladies  and  other  great 
people  sat  down  to  it.  When  the  guests  were  all 
gone,  and  the  three  drew  round  the  fire,  the  hus- 
band said  to  his  wife,  ''  What  did  you  think  of  our 
party?"      And  she  said,    "Indeed,    John,  I  was 


226  The  Gentle  Heart. 

thinking  all  the  time  of  it,  that  you  and  I  have 
never  been  so  happy,  or  good,  as  long  ago  when  I 
used  to  take  your  dinner  to  the  forge  and  wait  till 
you  had  eaten  it."  "  That  same  is  my  thought  too 
at  times,"  said  the  husband. 

They  got  the  grandeur  and  the  banquets  they 
hungered  for,  you  see,  but  their  happy  life  they  had 
left  behind. 


SILLY  JACK'S  PARABLE. 


SILLY  JACK'S  PARABLE. 

"  IV  /r  AN  cannot  live  by  bread  alone." 

-LVx  In  order  to  live  as  God  would  like 
us  to  live,  we  need  all  the  words  which  have  come 
to  us  from  God.  Bread  is  only  one  of  these 
words.  Bread  tells  us  of  God's  care  for  our  bodies. 
But  God  is  speaking  to  us  by  other  things  besides 
bread.  The  love  with  which  our  parents  love 
us,  and  liberty,  and  truth,  and  justice,  are  all 
words  which  God  has  spoken  and  which  we  need 
as  well  as  bread.  To  make  us  good,  and  wise,  and 
happy,  we  need  every  good  thing  which  has  come 
to  us  from  God. 

One  dark  November  night,  a  few  years  ago,  two 
gentlemen  in  a  gig  were  driving  along  the  banks  of 
the  river  Leven,  and  in  a  very  lonesome  part  of 
the  road  they  heard  the  cries  of  a  child.    Although 


230  The  Gentle  Heart. 

they  could  see  nothing,  they  knew  by  the  cries  that 
not  far  from  the  road  a  child  was  in  great  distress. 
They  pulled  up,  and  found  that  they  were  beside 
a  graveyard,  and,  following  the  sound  of  the  cries, 
they  came  up  to  a  little  boy,  six  or  seven  years 
old,  lying  all  his  length  on  a  grave,  and  crying  on 
the  mother  who  lay  below  to  come  back  to  him. 
The  mother  had  died  a  few  days  before,  and  home 
had  lost  its  sweetness  for  the  child.  He  would 
not  leave  the  grave.  "  I  want  to  be  beside  mam- 
ma," he  said,  when  the  gentlemen  wished  him  to 
come  with  them.  At  last  they  got  him  to  tell 
where  he  lived — it  was  four  miles  off — and,  lifting 
him  up  in  their  arms,  they  drove  to  the  door.  It 
was  a  bright  enough  home,  with  no  scarceness  of 
bread  or  comfort  in  it.  It  only  wanted  a  mother's 
love.  The  poor  child  had  food,  and  clothes,  and 
comforts,  as  much  as  he  could  enjoy ;  but  even  a 
child  cannot  be  happy  with  food,  and  clothes,  and 
comforts  alone,  but  with  every  word  that  comes 
from  the  mouth  of  God.  And  the  best  word 
which  had  come  from  the  mouth  of  God  for  this 
child  had  been  his  mother's  love — and  that  was 
gone  ! 

II. 

Yet  even  a  mother's  love  is  not  enough.     Moses 


Silly  Jack's  Parable.  231 

had  love  from  two  mothers,  and  he  had  bread,  and 
a  bright  home,  and  ease,  and  splendour,  but  he 
was  not  happy.  Ever  since  the  kind  princess  lifted 
him  out  of  the  ark  of  rushes,  he  had  lived  in 
a  king's  palace  and  been  loved  by  the  king's 
daughter.  He  was  her  adopted  son.  He  might 
even  become  king  himself  some  day.  Servants 
waited  on  him  to  give  him  whatever  he  asked  for. 
Tutors  waited  on  him  to  teach  him  all  that  was 
then  known.  He  had  horses  and  carriages,  and 
yachts,  and  splendid  clothes,  and  plenty  of  money, 
and  everything  this  earth  could  supply  to  make  a 
man  happy.     But  he  was  not  happy. 

What   he   wanted   more    than  -all   he  had  was 
justice  and  deliverance  for  his   Hebrew  kinsfolk. 
While  he  was  feasting  on  king's  meat  in  the  palace, 
they  were  living  on  hard  fare  in  the  brick-kiln. 
While  he  was  a  free  man,  they  were  slaves.     While 
he  could  say  to  guards  and  servants  "  Go,"  and 
they  would  go,   "Come,"  and  they  would  come, 
brutal  men   were  standing  over  his  Hebrew  kins- 
men, with  whips  in  their  hands,  cutting  into  their 
flesh  if  they  fainted  with  their  toil.     He  had  no 
peace  day  nor  night.     And  everything  reminded 
him  of  the  sufferings  of  his  people.     If  he  went 
to  town,  he  saw  the  bricks  they  had  made  being 


232  The  Gentle  Heart. 

carried  along  the  streets.  If  he  went  to  the  coun- 
try, he  came  on  the  kilns  where  they  were  suffer- 
ing. If  he  visited  the  brick-kilns,  he  heard  the 
crack  of  the  lash  on  every  side  of  him,  and  the 
sharp  cry  of  the  lashed  one's  pain.  Now  and 
again,  too,  riding  in  a  royal  carriage,  and  dressed 
like  a  prince,  a  Hebrew  would  pass  him  on  the 
road  carrying  straw  for  the  bricks.  And  the  poor 
bent  form  of  the  slave  would  straighten  up,  and 
his  eyes  would  cast  one  look  into  the  carriage,  as 
much  as  to  say,  "  You  there — I  here  ! "  And  all 
these  things  cut  into  the  soul  of  the  young  man. 
And  he  was  very  sad. 

One  day  it  happened  to  him  to  be  near  a  brick- 
field. The  air  was  filled  with  the  sickening  vapour 
of  the  clay.  He  saw  crowds  of  his  kinsfolk 
moving  about  at  their  dreary  task.  His  heart  was 
sore  for  their  misery.  Just  at  that  moment  a  poor 
slave  rushed  out  into  the  road,  pursued  by  one  of 
the  taskmasters,  his  back  all  cut  and  bleeding  with 
the  lash,  and  fell  dead  at  the  feet  of  Moses.  The 
hidden  fountains  of  anger,  which  had  been  gather 
ing  and  growing  hotter  within  him  for  years,  burst 
forth  at  the  sight,  and,  rushing  at  the  cruel  task- 
master, he  killed  him  in  his  wrath. 

He  knew  well  enough  that  his  own  life  would 


Silly  Jack's  Parable.  233 

be  taken  if  it  were  known.  But  he  had  made  up 
his  mind.  It  was  better  to  die  than  to  live  as 
he  had  been  Uving.  He  could  no  longer  live  on 
splendid  clothes  and  royal  banquets.  His  soul 
wanted  God's  justice  for  his  poor  oppressed  and 
trampled  kinsfolk.  His  soul  yearned  for  their 
deliverance.  He  knew  how  God  meant  them  to 
become  His  people ;  and  he  wanted  them  to  be 
free  that  they  might  go  and  be  His  people. 

Dear  to  him,  no  doubt,  was  the  love  of  his 
adopted  mother,  dear  also  the  books  he  had 
learned  to  read ;  but  a  great  voice  from  God  was 
speaking  in  his  heart,  and  bidding  him  leave 
Egypt  and  kings'  houses,  and  prepare  to  work  out 
the  will  of  God  in  delivering  His  people.  And  he 
left  all  and  went. 

III. 
Hundreds  of  years  ago,  in  one  of  the  old  Etrus- 
can cities  of  Italy,  there  lived  a  young  and  wealthy 
lawyer  whose  name  was  Jacob  Bendetti.  He  had 
a  beautiful  young  wife,  and  he  and  she  were  once 
invited  to  a  splendid  ball. 

Now  something  came  in  his  way,  so  that  the 
husband  could  not  get  to  the  ball  at  the  beginning, 
and  his  wife  had  to  go  with  some  friends.  But  in 
a  little  while  he  arrived.     When  he  came  into  the 


234  The  Gentle  Heart. 

room  everything  was  in  confusion.  His  beautiful 
young  wife  had  been  seized  with  a  sudden  iUness 
and  there,  or  on  the  way  home,  she  died. 

Jacob  was  almost  in  despair.  He  gave  up  his 
business,  sold  all  his  possessions,  gave  his  money 
to  the  poor,  and  became  a  minister  of  the  gospel. 
People  laughed  at  him  for  doing  this.  Always 
there  are  people  who  laugh  at  things  noble  or 
good.  They  said  it  was  so  silly  for  a  rich  young 
fellow  to  cry  as  he  cried  for  his  wife,  and  to  sell  all 
he  had  and  give  all  his  money  away.  And  there 
was  another  thing  these  people  thought  silly.  He 
not  only  began  to  preach  to  poor  people  about 
Jesus,  but  he  wrote  poems,  and  prayers,  and 
parables  for  them  in  their  own  mother  tongue. 
"  Oh,  so  silly  !"  cried  the  people  who  used  to  go  to 
balls  with  him.  So  they  called  him  "  Silly  Jack," 
and  he  is  known  as  Silly  Jack  to  this  day. 

But  it  wasn't  he  who  was  silly ;  it  was  the  ig- 
norant and  stupid  butterfly  people  who  had  not 
sense  to  see  that  he  was  wise. 

I  was  reading  some  notes  about  the  life  and 
writings  of  this  man  lately,  and  among  these  notes 
I  came  upon  a  parable  which  I  thought  would 
make  a  good  sermon  for  the  boys  and  girls  I 
speak  to. 


Silly  Jack's  Parable.  235 

The  parable  is  this :  "  Once  upon  a  time  there 
was  a  fair  young  maiden  who  had  five  brothers. 
One  was  a  musician,  the  second  was  a  painter,  the 
third  was  a  merchant,  the  fourth  was  a  cook,  and 
the  fifth  was  a  builder. 

Now  this  fair  young  maiden  had  a  beautiful 
diamond  which  her  father  had  given  her,  and  each 
of  the  brothers  wanted  it  for  himself. 

The  first  who  sought  it  was  the  musician.  He 
came  to  her  and  said,  *  Sell  it  to  me ;  I  will  play 
you  some  beautiful  music  for  it.'  But  she  said, 
'  And  when  the  music  is  ended  I  should  have 
nothing ;'  and  she  refused  to  sell  her  diamond  for 
music. 

Then  came  the  painter.  '  I  will  paint  you  a 
splendid  picture  for  your  diamond,'  he  said.  But 
she  replied,  '  Your  splendid  picture  might  be 
stolen,  or  its  colour  might  fade.  I  will  not  sell 
my  diamond  to  you.' 

Next  came  the  merchant.  'O  sister,' he  said, 
'  I  will  bring  you  such  spices  and  perfumes  from 
the  East  in  my  ships  as  you  never  smelled  the  like 
of;  and  I  will  give  you  sweet  smelhng  roses  and 
lilies — a  garden  full'  But  she  said,  'The  per- 
fumes will  cease  to  please  me,  and  the  roses  and 
lilies  will  fade.' 


236  The  Gentle  Heart. 

Then  the  cook  came  u]^  and  said,  '  Dear  sister, 
I  will  prepare  for  you  a  splendid  banquet  of  the 
finest,  richest  things  you  could  eat  :  give  your 
diamond  to  me.'  But  she  said,  'After  the  banquet 
I  should  be  hungry  again  and  my  diamond  gone  : 
no,  I  will  not  sell  it  to  you/ 

Then  the  builder  came.  He  offered  to  build 
her  a  beautiful  palace  to  live  in — a  palace  that 
might  do  for  a  queen.  '  But  a  palace  is  filled  with 
cares,  even  to  its  queen,'  she  said,  '  and  I  cannot 
sell  my  diamond  for  a  house  full  of  cares.' 

At  last,  when  all  the  brothers  had  been  refused, 
came  the  prince  of  a  great  kingdom  and  said  he 
wished  to  buy  the  diamond.  '  And  what  will  you 
give  for  my  diamond  ? '  she  asked.  '  I  will  give 
myself,'  he  said ;  '  myself,  and  all  I  possess.' 
Hearing  that,  the  young  maiden  answered,  'I 
accept  that  gift.  I  will  be  yours  and  you  shall  be 
mine  for  ever.'  Whereupon  she  gave  him  the 
diamond." 

Now  that  is  the  parable,  and  here  is  the  inter- 
pretation. The  fair  young  maiden  is  you,  or  your 
sister,  or  any  young  person  you  know.  The  father 
is  God.  And  the  diamond  given  by  the  father  is 
the  soul.  The  five  brothers  are  the  five  senses, 
each  of  which  wishes  to  get  the  soul  all  to  itself. 


Silly  Jack's  Parable.  237 

The  ear  comes  first,  and  wants  the  soul  to  give 
itself  altogether  to  the  pleasures  of  music.  "  That 
is  the  great  life,"  it  says,  "just  to  be  going  to 
concerts  and  listening  to  fine  airs  and  fine  songs." 
The  eye  comes  next  and  wishes  the  soul  to  give 
itself  away  to  fine  sights,  beautiful  paintings,  beau- 
tiful statues,  beautiful  sights  on  the  hills  and  the 
fields.  And  the  other  senses,  one  after  another, 
come  and  want  to  get  the  soul  all  to  themselves — 
to  fine  gardens,  to  fine  parties,  or  to  fine  houses. 

But  the  soul  sees  that  all  these  things  perish  as 
they  are  used.  The  soul  knows  that  ear,  and  eye, 
and  smell,  and  touch,  and  taste,  are  only  little  bits 
of  one's  being ;  and  that  it  would  never  do  to  give 
itself  away  to  a  mere  little  bit  of  its  being.  The 
soul  has  learned  that  nothing  can  fill  the  whole 
being  except  God  Himself  who  made  it.  And  it 
says,  "  What  would  it  profit  me  though  I  should 
gain  all  that  the  five  senses  could  bring  to  me  if  I 
were  to  lose  my  very  self  and  be  cast  away?" 

There  are  plenty  of  people  who  sell  their  souls 
for  music,  painting,  fine  dinners,  and  beautiful 
gardens,  and  fine  houses.  But  no  wise  child  will 
do  it.  No  one  who  knows  Christ  will  do  it. 
Christ  alone  is  worthy  to  have  the  soul.  He  gave 
Himself  for  the  soul ;  Himself  and  all  that  He  has. 


238  The  Gentle  Heart. 

And  the  wise  maiden  in  the  parable  knew  that. 
The  pleasures  of  earth  were  nothing  to  her  in 
comparison  with  Christ.  "  What  are  fine  parties, 
beautiful  pictures,  or  splendid  mansions,  if  at  the 
end  I  should  lose  my  soul  ?"  So  she  gave  her  soul 
to  Christ.  And  she  got  what  was  better  than 
pictures,  or  palaces,  or  fine  gardens.  She  got 
Christ  Himself. 

True  happiness  is  to  have  Christ's  love  in  our 
hearts.  Does  Christ  love  me  ?  Do  I  love  Christ? 
That  child  has  begun  to  live  the  true  life  who  can 
say  ''yes "  to  those  two  questions.  And  that  is  the 
life  which  Jesus  brought  from  heaven  to  us.  He 
is  offering  it  to  us  when  He  is  telling  about  His 
Father's  love.  He  is  inviting  us  to  it  when  He 
says,  "  Come  unto  Me."  Himself  is  the  true  life. 
Himself  is  bread,  and  life,  and  love.  To  have 
Jesus  for  our  friend,  and  His  life  in  our  heart,  is 
better  than  gold  and  silver,  or  fine  mansions,  or 
banquets  with  the  great.  It  is  the  grand  secret  of 
a  good  life.  It  is  the  true  way  to  happiness.  It 
is  a  life  that  will  never  die.  And  it  is  the  life 
which  prophets  and  apostles  and  saints  are  living 
before  God's  throne  in  heaven. 


A    BOY'S  ACT,   AND    WHAT  IT  LED 
TO. 


A  BOY'S  ACT,  AND  WHAT  IT  LED  TO. 


IN  a.  certain  Austrian  stable,  between  seventy 
and  eighty  years  ago,  a  young  Englishman  of 
the  name  of  Baldwin  was  opening  a  box  which  had 
just  come  from  London.  It  was  the  time  when 
English  racing  and  hunting,  and  English  ways  of 
managing  and  training  horses,  began  to  be  copied 
by  the  young  noblemen  of  the  Continent.  Baldwin 
had  been  brought  from  England  to  manage  the  stud 
of  an  Austrian  nobleman.  He  had  a  good  salary, 
and  besides  his  salary  a  certain  profit  on  all  the 
saddlery  that  might  be  required.  The  box  which 
he  was  opening  was  filled  with  saddles  and  other 
horse-gear.  Now  the  man  who  supplied  these 
saddles  was  a  very  worthy  and  pious  man,  and  he 
was  a  director  of  the  London  Tract  Society.  And 
when  he  was  putting  in  the  saddles,  he  slipped  in 
beside  them  a  bundle  of  tracts.     "  Who  knows  the 


242  The  Gentle  Heart. 

good  they  may  do  ?  "  he  said  to  himself,  as  he  put 
them  in.  When  Baldwin  came  to  the  bundle  of 
tracts  he  said  to  a  young  English  boy  he  had 
brought  with  him  as  his  assistant,  "  What  can  this 
square  parcel  be  ?  " 

"  Tracts,"  replied  the  boy. 

"  Tracts  are  they  ?  "  said  Baldwin,  a  little  angry, 
"  then  that  is  the  place  for  them."  And  suiting  the 
action  to  the  word,  he  shied  the  tracts  to  the 
farthest  corner  of  the  room.  Baldwin  was  a  frank, 
generous  fellow,  but  he  was  not  religious.  He  was 
quite  ignorant  of  Christ  and  the  Bible.  But  he 
was  not  the  least  angry  when  his  boy  assistant  said 
to  him  in  the  evening,  "  If  you  are  not  going  to 
read  these  tracts  yourself,  Mr.  Baldwin,  you  might 
let  me  have  them  home."  And  Baldwin  gave  the 
tracts  to  the  boy.  And  at  that  moment,  although 
neither  of  them  knew  it,  the  battle  of  life  began 
for  them  both. 

The  boy  read  the  tracts.  And  God  blessed 
the  reading  of  the  tracts  to  him,  and  he  learned 
many  things  he  did  not  know  before.  Among 
other  things,  he  learned  that  the  Lord's-day  is  not 
a  common  day,  but  a  day  of  rest  and  worship ;  and 
that  it  is  wrong  to  do  on  the  Lord's-day  certain 
things  which  it  is  not  wrong  to  do  on  other  days. 


A  Boys  Act,  and  zvJiat  it  Led  To.    243 

And  although  he  was  only  a  boy,  his  conscience 
went  along  with  the  tract  that  told  him  this.  And 
he  saw  that  the  nobleman  and  Baldwin  and  him- 
self were  all  acting  contrary  to  God's  purpose  for 
that  day.  For  in  Austria,  as  in  France  and  other 
places  on  the  Continent,  they  are  so  unhappy  as 
not  to  have  learned  the  true  purpose  of  the  Lord's- 
day.  And  they  have  their  great  hunts  and  races 
chiefly  on  that  day. 

The  boy,  so  soon  as  he  saw  all  this,  came  to 
his  master  and  said — 

''  Mr.  Baldwin,  I  wish  to  give  up  my  place.  I 
have  been  reading  these  tracts,  and  I  have  learned 
that  it  is  wrong  to  hunt  and  race  on  the  Lord's-day." 

At  first  Mr.  Baldwin  was  angry,  then  he  was 
vexed  ;  but  when  he  could  not  move  the  boy  from 
his  purpose,  he  said,  "  Well,  I  am  sorry  to  lose 
you,  but  if  you  cannot  work  on  Sunday,  you  are 
of  no  use  here."     And  the  boy  left. 

The  boy  had  fought  his  first  battle  against 
wrong-doing  well.  And  although  his  master  did 
not  see  it  at  the  time,  he  had  summoned  Baldwin 
too  into  the  battle-field. 

II. 

Some  months  went  past,  and  Mr.  Baldwin  had  to 
come  to  England  to  buy  horses  for  his  master.    He 


244  TJie  Gentle  Heart. 

was  one  day  riding  on  the  top  of  the  stage-coach 
from  York  to  London,  and  he  began  to  have  some 
pleasant  talk  with  a  gentleman  sitting  by  his  side. 
The  gentleman  had  some  information  to  give  about 
Yorkshire,  and  Baldwin  repaid  him  with  stories 
about  Vienna.  "But  do  you  know,"  he  said, 
"  the  strangest  thing  I  have  seen  since  I  went  to 
Austria  was  a  little  boy  I  had,  giving  up  his  place 
in  my  stable,  because  he  thought  it  stupid  to  run 
liorses  on  Sunday  !  Did  you  ever  hear  the  like  of 
it  ?  "  The  gentleman  said  nothing  at  the  time ; 
but  at  the  end  of  the  journey  he  took  a  book  from 
his  bag  and  said, — 

'^  This  has  been  a  very  pleasant  talk  we  have 
had  together.  I  should  like  to  leave  you  this 
memorial  of  it,  if  you  will  promise  to  read  it." 

*'  And  that  I  will,"  said  Baldwin,  "  and  I  assure 
you  I  shall  read  it."  And  the  two  travellers 
parted. 

When  Baldwin  went  back  to  Vienna  two  gifts 
from  the  good  Lord  were  waiting  for  him.  The 
first  was  a  beautiful  wife,  well  educated,  well  prin- 
cipled, and  with  good  friends.  The  second  was 
the  opportunity  of  leisure  to  read  the  book  he 
had  received  in  England.  It  was  the  Bible; 
but    although   he   had    come    from    England,  he 


A  Boys  Act,  and  what  it  Led  To.    245 

had  never  read  it  before.  But  now  he  drew  to 
it.  And  Hke  a  thorough  man  as  he  was,  he 
began  at  the  beginning  and  read  right  on  to  the 
end.  The  Book  moved  him  as  no  other  book  had 
done.  He  was  surprised — then  deHghted — then 
melted.  When  he  came  to  the  story  of  Christ  and 
of  His  death,  he  was  fairly  broken  down.  He 
cried  as  if  he  had  been  a  child  in  pain.  And  then 
he  became  as  happy  as  an  angel  before  God. 
God  had  opened  his  eyes  to  read  the  Book  aright, 
and  He  inclined  his  heart  to  beheve  the  Book. 
And  the  end  was  that  he  learned  that  God  had 
given  His  Son  to  him  and  poor  sinners  like  him. 
And  he  gave  his  heart  to  God.  And  a  new  light 
came  from  the  Book  on  everything.  He  saw 
things  he  had  never  seen  before,  and  things  he  saw 
before  looked  different  And  what  was  strange, 
the  Book  itself  seemed  different.  Every  word  of 
it  now  seemed  to  come  to  him  direct  from  the  lips 
of  God.  And  he  began  once  more  at  the  be- 
ginning and  read  parts  of  it  again  and  again. 

One  day  he  came  on  these  words  :  "  Remember 
the  Sabbath-day,  to  keep  it  holy.  Six  days  shalt 
thou  labour  and  do  all  thy  work,  but  the  seventh 
day  is  the  Sabbath  of  the  Lord  thy  God.  In  it  thou 
shalt  not  do  any  work."     Again  and  again  he  came 


246  The  Gentle  Heart. 

on  similar  words.  He  found  the  Sabbath  shining 
like  a  great  light  in  Paradise,  and  in  the  time  of 
the  patriarchs,  and  in  the  wilderness,  and  in  the 
Holy  Land,  and  in  the  life  of  our  Lord;  and  in 
like  manner  the  Lord's-day,  in  the  practice  of  the 
Apostles.  And  as  he  read,  he  remembered  the 
boy  who,  to  be  true  to  God's  purpose  in  this 
day,  had  given  up  his  place.  It  all  came  back 
to  him  just  as  it  happened.  And  he  saw  at  a 
glance  that  he,  too,  had  that  same  battle  to  fight, 
which  his  boy  had  fought  and  won. 

III. 

His  first  difficulty  was  his  marriage.  *'  Ah,"  he 
said,  *'  if  I  were  as  the  young  boy  was,  alone,  it 
would  be  easy  to  decide.  But  I  am  married, 
and  have  a  house  to  keep  up."  And  then  there 
was  his  wife  herself.  She  had  been  accustomed 
to  theatres  and  balls,  and  she  was  an  Austrian,  and 
might  not  sympathise  with  him  at  all.  His  duty 
was  plain,  but  he  had  to  fight  his  way  to  it.  *"'  Shall 
I  first  go  home  and  tell  my  wife  ?  Shall  I  wait 
until  I  convert  her  to  my  way  of  thinking  ?  "  The 
difficulty  was  very  great.  But  he  thought  of 
Christ,  and  of  Christ  giving  up  all  things  for  him, 
and  of  Christ's  words  :  "  Whosoever  doth  not  bear 


A  Boy's  Act  and  ivJiat  it  Led  To.     247 

his  cross  and  come  after  Me,  cannot  be  My  dis- 
ciple." And  he  became  strong  to  do  God's  will, 
and  there  and  then  resolved  to  imitate  the  boy  and 
give  lip  his  place.  So  he  went  to  his  master  and 
told  him,  almost  in  the  very  words  his  stable-boy 
had  used,  the  position  in  which  he  stood.  The 
master  thought  at  first  he  wanted  more  salary, 
and  said  a  little  angrily,  "  Now,  Baldwin,  no  more 
of  this.  You  want  a  rise,  and  you  shall  have  it, 
as  I  can't  do  without  you." 

*'  No,  my  lord,"  said  Baldwin,  "  think  better  of 
me  than  that.  I  mean  what  I  say — unless  you 
can,  and  I  should  be  most  thankful  if  you  could, 
relieve  me  of  Lord's-day  work." 

"  Well,  Baldwin,  that  is  not  once  to  be  thought 
of.  If  we  don't  take  out  our  horses  on  Sunday,  we 
need  not  have  them  at  all."  And  that  was  true 
for  Austria.  And  Baldwin  had  no  other  word  to 
utter.  He  gave  up  his  place,  and  then  with  a  heavy 
and  anxious   heart   turned  his  face  to  his  home. 

To  tell  his  wife  ;  to  reason  with  her ;  to  try  to 
bring  her  round  to  his  way  of  thinking ;  to  get 
her  to  see  that  he  had  not  acted  foolishly  or  un- 
kindly— this  was  the  next  battle  he  had  to  fight. 

But  it  is  God's  way,  when  a  soul  has  fought  one 
part  of  a  fight  of  faith  well,  to  come  to  his  help 


248  The  Gentle  Heart. 

and  fight,  or  send  His  angels  to  fight,  by  his  side. 
And  Baldwin  found  this — to  his  unspeakable  joy — 
when  he  went  home.  He  told  the  whole  history 
of  his  soul,  told  about  the  boy  and  the  Book, 
and  his  own  discoveries  in  the  Book,  and  the 
struggle  and  the  victory.  And  then  he  said, 
'*My  dearest  love,  do  not  judge  me  harshly.  It 
was  the  Lord's  will ;  I  could  do  no  other." 

His  wife  put  her  arm  about  his  neck  and  said, 
"There  is  nothing  to  regret.  Let  us  give  God 
thanks  rather.  God  has  been  preparing  me — 
although  I  did  not  know  it — for  this  very  event." 

And  then  she  told  him  how  her  old  life  had 
become  distasteful  to  her,  and  how  she,  too, 
had  been  led  to  the  Saviour,  and  had  secretly 
been  longing  for  the  opportunity  to  tell  her  hus- 
band of  the  great  things  which  the  good  God 
had  done  for  her  soul.  That  was  a  happy  hour 
for  Baldwin  and  his  wife. 

IV. 

Five  years  went  past.  Baldwin  and  his  wife 
were  poor.  When  he  left  the  Austrian  noble- 
man's he  went  to  Brussels,  and  then  to  London, 
trying  to  make  a  business  by  bringing  Dutch 
horses   to   England.      But  he   did    not   succeed. 


A  Boy's  Act  and  what  it  Led  To.     249 

And  all  through  those  years  he  was  fighting  a 
grim  fight  with  unbelief  and  despair.  Thoughts 
would  come  into  his  soul  at  times  that  God  had 
forsaken  him ;  that  He  did  not  care  for  him,  and 
did  not  love  him.  But  ever  he  fought  down  those 
thoughts,  and  sometimes  he  would  say  to  his 
patient  and  noble  wife,  "  Though  God  slay  us,  we 
will  trust  in  Him."  And  she  would  answer,  smil- 
ing, "  Baldwin,  Amen." 

Still  it  was  a  hard  time  for  him  and  her.  When 
he  brought  over  the  last  lot  of  horses,  he  called 
on  a  friend  of  his,  the  head  cooper  in  Stanbury's 
immense  establishment,  where  between  two  and 
three  hundred  horses  were  kept,  and  told  him  every- 
thing, and  said,  "  If  I  do  not  sell  these  horses 
well  I  shall  be  at  the  end  of  my  means." 

The  good  man  went  to  the  counting-house  and 
spoke  to  Mr.  Stanbury  himself;  and  Mr.  Stanbury 
came  over  to  the  cooperage  and  saw  Baldwin,  and 
had  a  long  talk  with  him,  but  could  not  buy  his 
horses.  That  was  the  last  chance  of  a  good  bar- 
gain gone  j  and  Mr.  Baldwin,  with  as  heavy  a  heart 
as  ever  he  had,  knew  that  he  was  now  penniless 
in  the  world. 

His  shifty,  cheery  wife  took  a  little  shop  near 
one   of  the   wharves  of  a  canal  that  came  into 


250  The  Gentle  Heart. 

London,  and  Baldwin  went  about  every  day,  and 
every  hour  of  the  day,  looking  for  employment. 
He  found  many  friends.  The  gentleman  who  gave 
him  the  Bible  got  to  hear  of  him,  and  met  with 
him  again,  and  he  and  some  friends  from  Brussels, 
and  all  who  knew  him,  were  anxious  to  help  the 
worthy  man  into  work.  But  it  seemed  as  if 
every  day  made  the  prospect  more  gloomy  than 
the  day  before.  God  had  planned  out  for  him 
another  battle  before  He  would  bring  him  to  rest. 

V. 

One  day,  after  another  fruitless  application  for 
work,  he  was  returning  to  his  poor  home  beside 
the  canal,  when  his  way  happened  to  pass  the  en- 
trance into  the  famous  stables  of  Hattersal.  Mr. 
Hattersal  at  that  moment  was  at  the  door.  "  Why, 
Baldwin,  is  that  you  ?  Have  you  given  up  that 
fine  place  in  Austria  ?  And  what  are  you  doing 
now?"  Mr.  Hattersal  knew  Baldwin  since  his 
boyhood,  and  knew  that  there  was  not  in  all  Eng- 
land a  better  judge  of  horses.  Mr.  Baldwin  told 
him  so  much  of  his  story,  how  he  had  tried  to 
make  a  trade  with  Dutch  horses,  and  what  he  was 
in  search  of  now.  "Well,  Baldwin,  I  am  sur- 
prised, with  your  knowledge  of  horses,  you  should 


A  Boys  Act  and  what  it  Led  To.    251 

have  any  difficulty.  I  will  tell  you  what.  To- 
morrow is  the  great  day  at  Epsom,  and  I  am  going 
down.  I  will  give  you  a  seat  in  my  drag ;  and 
I  will  introduce  you  to  the  leading  stewards  of 
the  race-course.  I  will  recommend  you,  as  a 
good  judge  of  horses,  to  begin  with  ;  and  you  will 
tell  gentlemen  on  what  horses  to  bet ;  and  if  you 
are  what  you  used  to  be,  your  fortune  is  as  good 
as  made." 

It  was  a  great  offer,  and  it  was  kindly  meant. 
And  it  was  all  true — that  it  was  employment,  posi- 
tion, and  wealth  for  him.  Mr.  Baldwin  took  all 
that  in  at  a  glance,  and  with  his  whole  heart  he 
thanked  Mr.  Hattersal ;  but  he  said,  "Give  me  half 
an  hour  to  consider  your  kindness.^' 

Not  far  from  the  stables  some  new  houses  were 
being  built.  Baldwin  almost  ran  till  he  came  to 
them.  And  then  he  turned  aside,  went  over  the 
rubbish,  and  through  to  a  quiet  dark  place  where 
no  eye  could  see  him,  and  threw  himself  upon  the 
ground.  His  first  words  when  he  was  able  to 
speak  were,  *'  My  God,  come  to  my  help."  For 
he  had  seen  the  splendour  of  the  offer,  the  cer- 
tainty of  the  prospect,  the  deliverance  of  his  wife 
from  the  mean  house  and  toil,  and  the  wealth. 
But  he  had  also  seen  that  the  life  to  which  he  was 


252  The  Gentle  Heart. 

invited  was  next  door  to  a  life  of  vanity  and  crime. 
The  gamblings  the  cursing,  the  madness,  the 
cruelty,  the  meanness,  the  fraudulence,  the  low- 
life  and  degradation  of  the  race-course  of  England 
flashed  into  his  mind.  Could  a  Christian  touch 
it ;  or  be  what  one  who  even  touches  it  is  required 
to  be  ?  His  soul  shrank  from  the  pollution.  His 
love  for  his  wife,  his  honest  desire  for  employment, 
came  up  strong  before  his  soul.  But  he  was  faith- 
ful in  the  fight.  "Though  He  slay  me,  I  will 
trust  Him.  My  God,  my  God,  come  to  my  help." 
And  God  did  come  to  his  help.  And  he  rose 
strong  to  do  God's  will.  And  then  he  returned  to 
Mr.  Hattersal,  and  with  thanks — ay,  and  choked- 
down  tears^he  declined  the  tempting  offer. 

VI. 

Then  a  second  time  he  was  to  experience  how 
God  helps  His  faithful  ones  in  the  after-shocks  of  a 
battle  when  they  have  been  true  at  the  beginning. 
That  same  week,  in  Stanbury's  establishment,  the 
superintendent  of  horses  was  ordered  to  reside  in 
Spain  for  his  health,  and  Mr.  Stanbury  came  to  the 
master  cooper  and  said,  "  How  would  Baldwin  do 
for  our  horses  ?  I  liked  the  look  of  the  man." 
And  that  day  Baldwin  was  suddenly  lifted  out  of 


A  Boy's  Act  and  what  it  Led  To.    253 

poverty  into  affluence.  He  was  appointed  to  the 
vacant  place.  It  was  the  crown  which  the  Lord 
put  on  his  head  for  fighting  the  good  fight  of  faith. 

There  is  just  one  other  of  his  hfe-battles  I  must 
tell  you  about.  But  this  time  it  was  for  others, 
and  not  for  himself  he  fought.  His  masters  soon 
came  to  see  the  worth  of  the  servant  they  had  got. 
He  saved  more  than  his  salary  to  them  the  very 
first  year.  But  in  his  new  situation  there  was  one 
thing  which  gave  him  great  anxiety.  There  were 
two  or  three  hundred  horses  in  the  establishment, 
and  nearly  as  many  carters.  And  these  men  spent 
the  whole  of  every  Lord's-day  in  the  stable,  groom- 
ing the  horses  and  cleaning  the  stalls.  He  remem- 
bered his  stable-boy  in  Austria.  He  thought  of 
his  own  early  hardships.  Was  it  necessary,  was  it 
fair,  that  these  poor  fellows  should  be  deprived  of 
their  Sundays  ?  He  sought  an  interview  with  the 
head  partner,  and  asked  permission  to  make  an 
experiment  or  two.  The  partners  were  excellent 
men.  They  said  his  predecessor  had  always  told 
them  it  was  a  work  of  necessity  and  mercy.  But 
if  it  could  be  altered  no  one  would  rejoice  more 
than  themselves. 

He  began  by  giving  the  half  of  the  men  a  half- 
holiday  on  Sunday,     And  that  worked  very  well. 


254  '^^he  Gentle  Heart. 

Then  he  gave  the  half  of  them  the  whole  day,  so 
that  every  carter  had  his  alternate  Sunday.  Then 
he  went  a  step  further  and  gave  the  forenoon  to 
half  those  that  remained,  and  the  afternoon  to  the 
second  half.  Then  he  found  that  every  man  might 
have  a  whole  Sunday  and  a  half  Sunday  turn 
about  all  the  year  through.  And  a  blessing  came 
upon  his  work.  And  surely  these  men  called  him 
blessed. 

Now  that  is  the  end  of  the  story. 

I  have  no  doubt  he  had  other  battles  to  fight ; 
but  that  is  all  I  ever  heard  of  his  interesting  life. 

I  hope  my  telling  you  these  bits  of  it  will  help 
you  to  understand  both  that  you  and  I  have  battles 
of  faith  to  fight,  and  the  kind  of  battles  we  have 
to  fight. 

I  wish  I  could  tell  you  what  became  of  the 
stable-boy.  But  his  after-life  is  wholly  unknown 
to  me.  I  only  know  that  he  did  not  live  in  vain, 
and  that  he  was,  though  young,  the  means  of 
saving  a  soul.  But  if  you  happen  to  have  heard 
of  a  brave  old  man  of  the  last  generation,  whose 
life  had  been  one  long  battle  for  righteousness  and 
truth — who  knows  ? — that  may  have  been  the  boy 
who  was  faithful  to  God's  law  in  an  Austrian  stable 
more  than  seventy  years  ago. 


PITCHERS  AND  LIGH2S. 


PITCHERS  AND  LIGHTS. 

IN  the  wonderful  chapter  in  Judges  which  tells 
the  story  of  Gideon's  victory  there  are  so  many 
lessons  that  we  might  read  it  every  Sunday  for  a 
month,  and  find  new  lessons  each  day.  It  is  only 
one  of  these  lessons  I  am  going  to  bring  out  for 
you  at  present.  And  I  will  call  it  the  lesson  of 
the  pitchers  and  the  lights. 

It  is  an  old  story  now.  The  thing  it  tells  of 
happened  more  than  three  thousand  years  ago — 
long  before  Elijah's  time,  before  King  David's 
time,  a  hundred  years  even  before  Samson's  time. 
And  that  was  a  very  sad  time  for  the  children  of 
Israel.  Moses  and  Joshua  had  been  dead  more 
than  two  hundred  years.  And  they  had  no  pro- 
phet, or  king,  or  great  captain  to  help  them.  They 
were  like  sheep  without  a  shepherd. 

It  was  just  then,  when  they  had  no  king,  that 

257  g 


258  The  Gentle  Heart. 

the  wicked  nations  of  Midian  and  Amalek  said  to 
each  other,  "  Come,  they  have  no  king  in  Israel, 
nor  king's  soldiers,  let  us  go  in  and  seize  their 
land."  And  they  came, — a  great  army,  like  locusts 
in  number  and  cruelty, — and  filled  the  whole  rich 
plain  of  the  river  Jordan,  and  spoiled  the  people 
of  their  tents,  and  their  cattle,  and  their  food.  The 
shepherds  and  farmers  fled  to  the  hills.  And 
there,  away  in  hidden  places,  which  the  robbers 
could  not  reach,  they  sowed  their  wheat  and  their 
barley,  and  fed  the  flocks  they  had  saved. 

But  the  good  Lord  took  pity  on  His  poor 
Israelites.  And  He  sent  an  angel  to  say  that  He 
would  raise  up  a  captain  to  fight  for  them.  And 
then  one  of  the  strangest  things  happened.  The 
man  God  chose  to  be  their  captain  was  not  a 
soldier  at  all,  but  simply  a  good,  pious  farmer,  who, 
since  his  boyhood,  had  worked  among  the  wheat- 
fields  of  the  hills  for  his  father,  and  had  kept  love 
for  God  in  his  heart.  The  Lord  chose  this  man, 
Gideon,  the  son  of  Joash,  and  said  to  him,  "  Be 
thou  Captain  under  Me  in  this  war." 

Thirty  thousand  people  flocked  to  Gideon,  to 
be  soldiers  under  him,  when  they  heard  the  news. 
And  then  another  strange  thing  took  place.  The 
Lord  said  to  Gideon,  ''Thirty  thousand  soldiers 


Pitchers  and  Lights.  259 

are  too  many  for  the  battle  which  thou  must  fight." 
So  twenty  thousand  were  sent  home.  But  the 
Lord  said  again  :  "  Ten  thousand  also  are  too 
many.  Bring  them  down  to  this  brook,  and  bid 
every  man  of  them  drink."  And  when  they  were 
there,  the  most  part  of  them,  nine  thousand  seven 
hundred  of  them,  went  down  on  their  knees,  put 
their  lips  to  the  water,  and  that  way  drank.  But 
three  hundred  made  a  cup  of  their  hands  and 
raised  the  water  to  their  lips,  and  in  that  way 
drank.  Then  the  Lord  said  :  "  By  the  three  hun- 
dred that  lapped  the  water  from  their  hands  I  will 
have  this  battle  fought."  So  all  the  rest  went  back 
to  their  hiding-places  among  the  hills. 

And  now  took  place  the  strangest  thing  of  all. 
The  Lord  commanded  Gideon  to  divide  the  three 
hundred  into  three  companies,  and  give  each  man 
a  ram's-horn,  an  earthen  pitcher,  and  a  light  hidden 
in  the  pitcher.  He  was  to  go  into  the  battle  at  mid- 
night with  these.  And  when  every  man  had  got  his 
horn  and  his  pitcher  and  light,  on  a  certain  night 
Gideon  gave  the  word.  And  the  three  companies 
moved  down  in  silence  from  the  hills  to  where  the 
tents  of  Midian  and  Amalek  covered  the  plain. 
Silent,  unseen,  moved  the  three  hundred,  nearer 
and  nearer  to  the  sleeping  hosts.     Then  Gideon 


26o  The  Gentle  Heart. 

planted  his  men  all  round  the  camp.  Then  he 
blew  a  great  blast  on  his  own  horn,  and  cried, 
"  The  sword  of  the  Lord  and  of  Gideon !  "  Then 
every  man  did  as  his  captain  had  done,  blew  a 
loud  blast  on  his  horn  and  raised  the  same  shout. 
And  then  they  all  broke  their  pitchers  and  let  the 
lights  flash  forth.  And  at  the  sound  of  the  shout- 
ing and  of  the  horns  the  robber-army  started  from 
its  sleep.  The  soldiers  heard  the  sudden  sounds, 
and,  looking  out,  saw  the  flashing  lights.  All  round 
and  round  the  camp  they  saw  lights  moving  through 
the  darkness  ;  they  heard  horns  blowing.  The  air 
was  filled  with  noises,  with  the  shouts  of  mighty 
voices,  saying,  "  The  sword  of  the  Lord  and  of 
Gideon  !  "  Sudden  fear  took  hold  of  them.  They 
rushed  out  of  their  tents.  From  tent  to  tent, 
over  the  whole  camp,  rushed  forth  the  terror- 
stricken  soldiers  into  the  darkness,  until  at  last  the 
whole  army  was  in  flight.  And  then  Gideon  and 
his  men  pursued.  And  then  came  down  from 
their  hiding-places  on  every  side  other  fighters  of 
Israel  to  help.  And  there  was  a  great  pursuing  of 
the  robbers,  and  some  were  killed,  and  the  rest 
were  utterly  chased  out  of  the  land  ;  and  the  land 
was  cleared  of  its  foes. 

That  is  the  story  of  the  wonderful  victory  which 


Pitchers  and  Lights.  261 

this  great  hero  gained.  He  went  down  into  the 
battle  with  only  three  hundred  men,  with  only 
trumpets,  pitchers,  and  lights  for  weapons,  and  the 
mighty  hosts  of  Midian  and  Amalek,  thousands 
upon  thousands,  fled  before  him  and  were  driven 
from  the  land. 

More  than  a  thousand  years  after,  when  the 
story  of  this  victory  had  come  to  be  a  common 
lesson  in  the  houses  and  schools  of  the  Jews,  it 
was  read  in  the  hearing  of  a  little  boy  named  Saul 
who  lived  in  the  once  famous  city  of  Tarsus.  And 
it  made  a  great  impression  on  him,  and  went  deep 
into  his  heart.  And  long  years  after,  when  he  was 
an  old  man,  and  the  Apostle  Paul^  he  remembered 
it.  And  once,  when  he  was  in  the  city  of  Philippi, 
and  writing  a  letter  to  the  Corinthians,  he  put 
what  he  had  learned  from  that  story  into  a  letter 
in  these  words — "  God,  who  commanded  the  light 
to  shine  out  of  darkness,  hath  shined  in  our  hearts 
to  give  the  light  of  the  knowledge  of  the  glory 
of  God,  in  the  face  of  Jesus  Christ.  But  we  have 
this  treasure  (this  treasure  of  light)  in  earthen 
vessels,  that  the  excellency  of  the  power  may  be 
of  God,  and  not  of  us." 

You  see  the  old  apostle  has  remembered  all 
the  story — the   pitchers,  the  out-flashing    of  the 


262  The  Gentle  Heart. 

lights  at  night,  and  the  excellent  power  that  gained 
the  victory.  Especially  he  remembered  this — it 
was  this  that  had  gone  most  deeply  into  his  spirit 
— that  the  power  in  all  battles  for  God  must  be  the 
power  of  God.  Paul  is  writing  of  the  sufferings 
which  he  and  his  fellow-workers  had  to  endure. 
He  and  they  seem  no  better  in  the  eyes  of  Paul 
than  earthen  pitchers — poor,  weak,  fragile  crea- 
tures, that  any  blow  might  break,  who  one  day 
should  certainly  be  broken.  But  poor  and  fragile 
though  they  be,  they  are  vessels  carrying  a  divine 
light,  a  life  kindled  by  God,  and  a  power  which 
cannot  be  destroyed,  which,  even  if  those  who 
carry  it  were  broken  to  pieces  and  lying  in  the 
dust,  should  still  shine  forth  and  win  battles  for 
God. 

And  just  that  is  the  lesson  I  wish  to  draw  from 
this  old  story  of  Gideon's  pitchers.  As  Paul  re- 
members it,  and  translates  it  into  Christian  truth 
for  us,  it  becomes  part  of  the  good  news  of  Christ. 
It  brings  the  happy  assurance  to  every  heart  who 
hears  it,  that  even  a  child  may  be  a  vessel  to  carry 
the  power  of  God.  Weak  people,  little  people, 
fragile  people— God  uses  them  all.  God  can  fill  the 
weakest  and  the  most  fragile  with  strength  for  His 
work.     He  asks  only  that  the  heart  shall  receive 


PitcJiers  and  Lights.  263 

His  life.  The  outside  may  be  no  better  than 
earthenware,  but  inside  there  will  be  an  excellent 
light  and  power  of  God. 

And  that  is  the  New  Testament  picture  of  all 
Christians,  whether  young  and  feeble,  or  old  and 
strong.  They  are  all,  in  themselves,  but  vessels — 
and  vessels  neither  of  gold  or  silver,  but  of  clay — 
poor  fragile  things,  just  hke  earthen  pitchers.  We 
should  be  worthless,  only  God  puts  His  life  into 
our  hearts.  We  should  be  uncomely,  only  God 
puts  His  beauty  into  our  life.  And  we  should  be 
utterly  feeble,  and  unable  to  fight  one  battle  for 
truth  or  righteousness,  only  God  puts  His  Spirit 
into  ours.  And  when  the  power  of  that  comes 
upon  us,  we  become  strong  like  Gideon. 

More  wonderful  still :  that  is  a  picture  of  our 
dear  Lord.  He  also,  as  a  man,  was  but  an  earthen 
vessel.  He  was  made  in  the  likeness  of  men,  and 
became  a  partaker  of  our  flesh  and  blood  for  this 
very  end,  that  through  death  He  might  show  forth 
the  power  and  the  glory  of  the  divine  life  within. 

You  know  how  cruelly  His  enemies  put  Him  to 
death.  "  This  is  the  Heir  ;  come,  let  us  kill  Him," 
they  said.  They  nailed  Him  to  the  cross.  They 
did  all  that  evil  hearts  could  devise  to  destroy 
Him.       They  broke  the  vessel  which  contained 


264  The  Gentle  Heart. 

His  life.  But  by  this  very  cruelty  they  brought 
defeat  and  shame  upon  themselves  and  glory  to 
Him.  From  that  hour  He  began  to  be  a  con- 
queror and  a  deliverer.  Power  went  forth  from 
His  broken  body,  just  as  strength  and  victory 
shone  forth  from  Gideon's  broken  pitchers.  And 
ever  since,  His  enemies  have  been  driven  from  be- 
fore His  face.  And  over  all  the  earth  this  day, 
from  the  east  and  the  west,  from  the  north  and  the 
south,  multitudes  are  flocking  into  His  kingdom, 
and  rejoicing  to  call  Him  King. 


A    GENTLE   MASTER  AND   HIS 
SCHOLAR. 


A  GENTLE  MASTER  AND  HIS  SCHOLAR. 

I. 

I  INTEND  to  tell  you  to-day  of  a  Master  who 
was  denied  by  a  scholar  He  loved,  and  yet 
was  so  gentle  that  He  continued  to  him  His  love. 

The  scholar  was  Peter  ;  the  Master  was  Christ. 

It  was  the  last  evening  of  our  Lord's  earthly 
life.  It  was  the  evening  on  which  He  girt  a  towel 
about  Him,  and  washed  the  feet  of  His  disciples, — 
the  very  evening  also  on  which  one  of  these 
disciples  was  to  sell  Him  for  thirty  pieces  of  silver. 

The  Lord  and  the  disciples  were  sitting  in  an 
upper  room  in  Jerusalem.  They  had  come  to  this 
room  to  eat  the  Feast  of  the  Passover.  And  that 
itself  was  a  solemn  thing  to  do  ;  for  there  was 
prayer,  and  there  was  chanting  of  psalms,  and 
there  was  the  going  back  of  their  thoughts  to  the 

s67 


268  The  Gentle  Heart. 

awful  night  long  before  in  which  the  firstborn  of 
Egypt  were  slain,  when  the  angel  of  death  passed 
over  the  houses  of  the  children  of  Israel. 

But  on  this  particular  evening  there  were 
thoughts  in  the  minds  of  all  who  were  in  that 
upper  room  which  filled  them  with  concern  and 
sorrow.  It  was  the  last  passover  they  were  to  eat 
together.  Jesus  began  to  tell  them  of  His  going 
away,  and  of  the  death  He  had  to  die.  Very 
soon,  the  disciples  He  had  watched  over  and 
prayed  for  would  be  as  sheep  without  a  shepherd. 
Very  soon,  the  Master  they  had  learned  so  much 
from  would  be  taken  from  them  by  enemies,  and 
by  wicked  hands  put  to  death.  The  heart  of  the 
Saviour  was  very  sad.  One  of  His  own  disciples, 
one  who  had  eaten  the  Passover  with  Him,  was 
gone  forth  to  betray  Him.  He  had  seen  the 
traitor  rising  from  the  table  and  stealing  out  in  the 
darkness  to  do  his  evil  deed.  The  rest  of  the 
disciples  would  forsake  Him  too. 

"  Yes,"  He  said,  putting  His  sad  thoughts  into 
words,  ''ye  shall  all  be  offended  because  of  Me, 
this  night." 

But  as  soon  as  these  sorrowful  words  were 
spoken,  Peter  cried  out  that  such  a  thing  could 
never  happen.     One  at  least  of  his   dear  Lord's 


A  Gentle  Master  and  His  Scholar.   269 

disciples  would  never  do  a  thing  so  base. 
"  Though  all  the  others  should  be  offended  be- 
cause of  Thee,"  he  said,  "  yet  will  I  never  be 
offended." 

I  think  I  see  the  Lord  turning  to  the  disciple 
who  spoke  in  this  brave  way.  I  am  sure  it  was 
with  a  heart  filled  with  pity  He  said  to  him, 
"O  Peter,  this  very  night,  before  the  cock  crow 
twice,  thyself  shalt  deny  Me  thrice." 

Peter  could  not  bear  to  think  that  he  should  do 
a  thing  so  bad.  He  hated  the  very  thought  of  it. 
And  he  cried  out,  and  I  fancy  with  tears  in  his 
eyes,  ^'  Though  I  should  die  with  Thee,  yet  will 
I  not  deny  Thee.  I  am  ready  to  go  with  Thee 
both  unto  prison  and  death." 

And  he  really  thought  he  was  ready  to  do  all  he 
had  said.  For  he  loved  his  Master  with  his  whole 
heart,  and  meant  to  be  brave  and  true,  and  stand 
by  Him  to  the  end. 

In  a  little  while  the  meeting  in  the  upper  room 
came  to  an  end.  And  they  left  the  upper  room 
and  went  to  a  place  called  the  Garden  of  Olives. 
And  into  that  garden  Jesus  went  to  pray  to  His 
Father  for  strength.  He  often  went  there  to  pray. 
And  there  Judas  knew  he  should  find  Him.  And 
to  this  place  he  brought  a  band  of  rude  men  with 


2/0  The  Gentle  Heart. 

swords  and  staves  to  seize  Him  and  take  Him  to 
the  priests. 

It  was  a  very  quiet  and  lonesome  place.  And 
it  looked  more  lonesome  because  it  was  night,  and 
was  filled  with  trees  that  looked  all  black  at  night. 
But  there  was  no  quietness  in  it  after  Judas  came. 
The  people  he  brought  with  him  were  rude  and 
noisy,  and  came  round  about  the  Lord  to  lay  hold 
of  Him.  And  as  they  brought  lights  with  them, 
and  the  lights  went  moving  to  and  fro  among  the 
trees,  any  one  standing  near  could  see  what  they 
had  come  to  do.  Peter  understood  in  a  moment 
what  they  had  come  to  do.  He  saw  the  traitor 
also,  and  saw  him  giving  a  false  kiss  to  the  Lord. 
And  he  heard  the  rude  cries  and  he  saw  the  fierce 
looks  of  the  traitor's  band.  And  perhaps  he  saw 
some  one  laying  hands  on  Jesus  to  seize  Him. 
Whatever  took  place,  Peter  was  filled  with  anger. 
His  brave  soul  flamed  out  in  anger.  Were  rude 
hands  like  these  to  be  laid  on  the  Lord  he  loved 
so  well  ?  It  must  not  be.  He  would  defend  his 
Master.  He  would  show  them  that  one  at  least 
was  not  that  night  to  forsake  Him.  And  thinking 
these  thoughts  and  stirred  by  that  anger,  he 
suddenly  drew  forth  a  sword  and  began  to  strike 
with  it,  and  struck  one  of  the  servants  of  the 
high  priest  on  the  ear. 


A   Gentle  Master  and  His  Scholar.    271 


If  it  had  been  by  swords  the  Lord  was  to  be 
served  that  night,  Peter  might  not  have  failed. 
But  the  Lord  blamed  him  for  using  a  sword.  And 
then  came  into  Peter's  heart  the  beginning  of  fear, 
and  with  that  an  evil  thought  about  himself.  He 
said  to  himself,  "  This  Judas  band  have  lights,  and 
they  must  have  seen  me  as  I  struck  with  the 
sword."  When  the  band  left  the  garden,  and 
hurried  into  the  city,  the  lights  flashing  on  every- 
thing as  they  went,  Peter  felt  that  they  were 
flashing  back  on  him.  ''If  I  follow  I  shall  be 
found  out,"  he  thought.  But  how  could  he  refuse 
to  follow,  when  he  had  said,  "  I  will  go  with 
Thee  both  into  prison  and  death  "  ?  He  followed, 
but  it  was  with  halting  steps.  Up  through  the 
silent  streets  raged  the  noisy  band,  as  peaceful 
citizens  in  their  homes  were  lying  down  to  rest. 
Up  through  the  very  streets  in  which,  but  the 
other  day,  Jesus  was  welcomed  as  a  king.  He 
was  now  dragged  as  a  prisoner.  On,  from  one 
place  to  another,  they  dragged  Him,  till  they  came 
where  His  worst  enemies  were  waiting,  all  athirst 
for  His  blood.  It  was  the  palace  of  Caiaphas 
the  high  priest,  to  which  they  brought  the  Lord. 
Peter  still  followed,  but  at  a  distance,  and  hiding 
in  the  shadows  behind. 


2/2  TJie  Gentle  Heart. 

The  palace  v/as  built  like  a  square  of  houses, — 
an  open  court  in  the  centre,  the  rooms  all  round, 
and  an  entrance-hall  at  one  side  of  the  square. 
A  maid  was  waiting  at  the  hall  door  to  let 
them  in.  She  held  her  lamp  against  every  face  as 
it  passed.  Now  was  Peter's  first  trial.  Now  was 
Peter  to  learn  how  much  easier  it  is  to  strike  with 
a  sword  in  a  dark  place  than  to  speak  a  brave 
word  in  the  light.  He  shrank  back.  That  lamp 
would  discover  him.  The  others  would  see  the 
man  who  had  struck  with  the  sword.  But  then 
he  looked  wistfully  as  his  dear  Master  was  led  in, 
and  across  the  open  court  and  into  the  judgment- 
hall  out  of  his  sight.  Then,  still  looking  through 
the  gateway,  he  saw  the  men  who  had  taken  Jesus 
into  the  judgment-hall  come  out  again  into  the 
court  and  kindle  a  fire.  The  night  was  cold,  the 
fire  was  tempting.  He  would  be  nearer  his  Lord  if 
he  were  inside.  At  last  he  ventured  in.  And  it  was 
then,  as  the  maid  held  her  light  to  his  face,  and 
saw  his  troubled  look,  he  uttered  his  first  denial. 
'^  Thou  ?  "  she  said.  "  Thou  art  a  follower  of  that 
man  ? "  Alas  for  Peter !  His  fear  for  himself 
came  ov.r  him  like  a  great  wave  of  the  sea,  and 
he  said,  "  Woman,  I  know  Him  not."  After  a 
while,  as  he  stood  near  the  fire,  another  said,  "  Art 


A   Gentle  Master  and  His  Scholar.    273 

not  thou  one  of  this  man's  people  ?  "    And  a  second 
tmie,  with  angry  voice,  Peter  denied  that  he  was. 

All  this  time  he  could  see  the  judgment-hall  and 
the  crowd  of  evil  men  who  were  bearing  false  wit- 
ness against  his  Lord.  And  he  could  see,  stand- 
ing bound  before  them,  the  form  of  the  Lord 
Himself.  But  at  last,  the  long  night  was  coming 
to  an  end.  The  night  clouds  were  beginning  to 
break.  And  the  grey  streaks  of  morning  were 
coming  faintly  into  the  sky.  It  was  then  that  some 
word  which  Peter  spoke  told  the  people  standing 
about  that  he  was  from  Galilee.  They  said  to  him, 
^' Your  very  speech  tells  what  you  are.  You  are  a 
follower  of  the  Galilean  there."  A  third  time 
Peter  denied  that  he  knew  Him  whom  they  called 
the  Galilean,  and  this  time  he  denied  with  oaths 
and  curses.  But  even  as  he  was  speaking,  he  saw 
a  movement  in  the  judgment-hall.  And  his  Lord 
turned  round  and  looked  at  him.  Then  sank 
Peter's  heart  within  him.  His  Lord  had  warned 
him  that  he  should  deny  Him  three  times  before 
the  cock  crew,  and  at  that  very  moment  the  cock 
began  to  crow.  The  Lord's  look  pierced  him  like 
a  sword.  He  saw  his  cowardice,  his  ingratitude, 
his  sin.  And  rushing  out,  to  be  alone,  he  sobbed 
and  cried  as  if  his  heart  would  break. 


274  ^^^^  Gentle  Heart. 

It  was  a  great  sin  which  he  had  sinned.  He 
had  been  ashamed  of  Christ.  It  was  a  great  fall 
from  a  good  and  blessed  state.  He  had  been  a 
lover  of  Jesus.  He  was  the  first  to  see  and  say, 
that  Jesus  was  the  Saviour  of  the  world.  And  now, 
by  his  three  denials,  the  fair  form  of  his  love  and 
life  was  marred  to  the  very  heart. 

II. 

That  is  the  first  half  of  the  story  of  the  scholar 
who  denied  his  Master.  Listen  now  to  the  other 
half,  to  the  story  of  the  gentleness  of  the  Master 
who  still  kept  him  in  His  love. 

I  will  begin  this  half  by  saying,  that  there  are 
two  beautiful  things  in  every  gentle  heart.  Those 
two  things  are  honour  and  mercy. 

To  be  brave  for  goodness^  to  be  true  to  friends 
who  are  good,  not  to  be  ashamed  to  say,  "I  am  on 
their  side,"  to  be  a  hater  of  meanness  and  untruth, 
and  to  be  all  this,  even  if,  in  being  it,  one  should 
have  to  suffer  scorn  or  beating, — that  is  honour. 

To  pity  friends  who  through  fear  have  not  been 
brave  or  true,  to  forgive  them  for  their  want  of 
braveness  and  take  them  back  into  your  love,  even 
when  it  is  the  goodness  in  your  own  life  they  have 
not  been  true  to, — that  is  mercy. 


A    Gentle  Master  and  His  Scholar.   275 

The  story  of  Peter's  denial  of  his  Master  is  the 
story  of  one  who  failed  in  honour  :  the  story  of  the 
Master's  love  to  him  is  the  story  of  One  who  did 
not  fail  in  mercy. 

This  Master  is  very  gentle.  What  is  said  in  the 
old  psalm  may  be  said  of  Jesus.  **  Such  pity  as  a 
father  hath  to  his  children  "  the  Lord  had  to  Peter. 
He  knew  how  weak  he  was.  He  remembered  that 
although  Peter  was  a  man  in  years,  he  was  only  a 
child  in  the  power  to  be  honourable  and  true.  And 
therefore  He  was  not  angry  with  him.  He  did  not 
say,  "  I  will  have  nothing  more  to  do  with  this 
scholar."  He  said,  "  I  will  have  compassion  upon 
him,  and  remember  his  evil  deed  no  more." 

And  that  is  the  first  thing  to  understand  both 
about  Peter  and  about  the  gentleness  of  Christ. 

Peter  was  as  yet  very  weak.  And  he  did  not 
know  how  weak  he  was.  If  he  had  known  his 
weakness,  he  would  not  have  said,  "Though  all 
others  forsake  Thee,  yet  will  not  I."  That  is  a 
lesson  we  have  all  to  learn.  And  many  who  come 
to  be  very  strong  for  goodness  and  truth  in  their 
old  age  are  as  weak  as  Peter  in  their  youth.  About 
two  hundred  years  ago  there  lived  in  France  a 
very  holy  lady,  who  for  her  holiness  and  goodness 
was  by  bad  people  put  in  prison.     Her  name  was 


276  The  Gentle  Heart. 

Madam  Guyon.  When  this  lady  was  a  young  girl 
at  school,  she  was  very  religious,  and  had,  even 
then,  a  great  love  for  God.  But  one  day  she  said 
to  the  other  girls  of  the  school  that  she  loved  God 
so  well  that  she  could  die  for  Him.  And  the  other 
girls  saw,  or  thought  they  saw,  that  this  was  only 
a  boast,  and  that  it  sprang  from  pride.  So  they 
agreed  to  put  her  to  a  very  cruel  test.  They  went 
to  her  and  said  that  a  message  had  come  from 
God  commanding  her  to  give  up  her  life  for  Him. 
And  then  they  led  her  into  a  room,  on  which  they 
had  spread  a  great  white  sheet  to  receive  her 
blood.  And  they  ordered  her  to  kneel  in  the 
centre  of  it,  that  she  might  be  put  to  death.  Then 
her  heart  failed  her,  just  as  Peter's  did.  Then  she 
found  out  how  weak  and  proudhearted  she  had 
been.  And  she  cried  out  that  she  could  not  die 
until  her  father  gave  his  consent.  But  it  was  the 
beginning  of  strength  to  his  pious  girl  to  have 
found  out  her  weakness  and  her  pride  of  heart. 
And  it  was  the  beginning  of  strength  to  Peter  to 
find  out  how  weak  and  full  of  the  fear  of  death  he 
was.  And  the  gentleness  of  the  Master  was  shown 
in  this,  that  He  put  the  blame  of  the  denial  and 
the  untruth  on  his  weakness,  and  did  not  say,  ''  He 
has  a  bad  and  wicked  heart." 


A   Gentle  Master  and  His  Scholar,  277 

Another  beautiful  thing  in  the  gentleness  of  the 
Master  was,  that  although  Peter  failed  to  be  true 
to  Him,  He  did  not  fail  to  be  true  to  Peter.  When 
the  Lord  takes  any  one  into  His  love,  He  does  not 
easily  let  him  go.  He  had  taken  Peter  into  His 
love.  And  having  begun  to  love  him,  He  loved 
him  unto  the  end.  He  showed  that,  by  the  look 
which  He  gave  Him  when  the  cock  crew.  The 
Lord  had  been  thinking  of  Peter  and  praying  for 
him  even  when  evil  men  were  speaking  and  work- 
ing evil  against  Himself  at  the  judgment-seat.  And 
when  the  poor,  weak  disciple  had  lost  all  his  brave- 
ness  through  the  fear  which  had  come  upon  him, 
and  denied  his  Master  the  third  time,  and  this 
time  with  oaths  and  curses,  the  Master  turned  and 
gave  him  this  look.  It  was  a  look  of  sorrow,  not 
of  anger.  If  the  look  could  have  been  changed 
into  words,  it  would  have  said,  "  O  Peter !  O  my 
poor,  weak  disciple  !  did  I  not  forewarn  thee  of 
this  ?  "  A  very  tender  look  it  would  be,  like  the 
look  of  a  mother  who  finds  her  child  in  a  serious 
fault :  a  look  with  vexation  in  it,  but  also  with 
healing  and  help  in  it.  That  look  recalled  Peter 
to  himself.  It  made  him  see  two  things  at  the 
same  moment — both  how  truly  Jesus  loved  him, 
and  how  little  he  deserved  His  love.     That  look 


2/8  The  Gentle  Heart, 

made  him  ashamed  of  his  want  of  honour  and 
truth.  It  opened  the  fountain  of  tears.  It  led 
him  to  repent  of  the  base  words  he  had  spoken. 
And  the  gentle  Master  intended  that  it  should  help 
His  disciple  in  this  very  way. 

And  in  yet  another  way  the  Master  showed  that 
He  was  true  to  His  disciple.  Peter  was  one  of 
the  first  He  thought  about  after  He  rose  from  the 
grave.  So  loving,  so  gentle  was  He,  so  truly  did 
He  wish  this  disciple  to  know  that  he  was  forgiven, 
that  when  He  was  sending  a  message  to  the  dis- 
ciples about  His  resurrection,  He  mentioned  Peter, 
and  only  Peter,  by  name.  ''  Go  your  way,"  He 
said  to  the  women  who  came  to  the  grave  with 
sweet  spices  and  found  Him  risen — *'  go  your  way, 
tell  the  disciples  and  Feter,  that  Jesus  goeth  before 
you  into  Galilee." 

But,  more  gentle  still,  the  Master  not  only  for- 
gave His  disciple,  but  healed  him  of  the  evil  in 
his  heart.  He  did  not  make  light  of  the  evil 
which  His  disciple  had  done.  He  laid  bare  that 
evil,  so  that  Peter  could  not  but  see  it.  He  laid 
bare  the  very  thoughts  and  feelings  of  Peter's  own 
heart,  that  he  might  learn  how  he  had  been  led 
into  his  evil  deed.  He  showed  him  the  pride,  the 
self-esteem,  the  over-confidence  in  himself,  which 


A  Gentle  Master  and  His  Scholar.  279 

had  led  Peter  to  say,  "  Though  all  be  offended 
with  Thee,  yet  will  not  I." 

But  He  did  not  stop  there.  Jesus  knew  what 
Peter  was  yet  ignorant  of,  that  beneath  the  pride 
of  heart  lay  wells  of  love  and  faith  and  honour 
which  the  pride  of  his  heart  kept  from  flowing 
out. 

And  on  a  bright  morning  by  the  Sea  of  Galilee 
the  hour  came  when  the  gentle  Saviour  was  to 
bring  these  to  light. 

For  Peter,  it  was  the  hour  of  sorrow  for  his  sin. 
The  thoughts  of  his  warm  and  loving  heart  were 
dark  and  heavy  with  the  remembrance  of  his  sin. 
Often,  often,  by  night  and  by  day,  he  had  said  to 
himself,  ''  Am  I  the  same  disciple  who  made  the 
proud  boast,  and  yet  so  basely  fell?  Am  I  the 
man  who  denied  my  Lord  with  oaths  and  curses, 
and  am  yet  suffered  the  company  of  the  disciples  ?" 
A  great  cloud  of  shame  rested  on  his  soul.  He 
must  have  shrunk  from  the  very  thought  of  ever 
meeting  his  Lord  again.  But  even  while  this 
thought  was  troubling  him,  the  Master  he  had 
offended  appeared,  as  in  the  earlier  years,  on  the 
shores  of  the  lake. 

Three  times  the  gentle  Saviour  put  the  question 
to    His    disciple,    ''  Lovest   thou    Me  ^ "      Three 


28o  The  Gentle  Heart. 

times  He  gave  the  disciple  who  had  denied  Him 
thrice  an  opportunity  of  saying  that  he  loved  Him. 
At  last  Peter,  in  an  anguish  of  humility  and  love, 
cried  out,  "  Lord,  Thou  knowest  all  things  :  Thou 
knowest  that  I  love  Thee." 

It  is  not  boasting  now.  The  day  of  boasting  of 
his  own  faithfulness  is  over.  He  has  found  out 
how  weak,  how  passionate,  how  rash  he  has  been. 
He  knows  that  so  long  as  he  is  on  the  earth 
there  will  be  outbreaks,  and  fallings  away,  and 
turnings  from  the  right  path.  But  his  gentle 
Master  has  taught  him  also  to  know  that  beneath 
all  his  weakness  and  sinfulness  there  is  a  living 
stream  of  love  to  Christ,  which  if  he  follow  will 
lead  him  right. 

The  gentle  Saviour  in  the  presence  of  all 
the  other  disciples  lifted  the  fallen  Peter  into 
his  old  place  of  honour.  He  put  a  new  heart 
in  him  and  a  right  spirit  to  make  him  strong 
and  bold  to  speak  for  God  and  for  righteous- 
ness. And  He  put  him  in  charge,  as  a  minister 
of  the  Gospel,  of  His  flock.  **  Feed  My  lambs 
and  My  sheep,"  He  said  to  him.  And  Peter 
became  brave  and  true,  and  one  of  the  most 
faithful  among  the  apostles.  It  was  Peter  who 
preached  the  first  sermon  on  Christ  in  Jerusalem, 


A   Gentle  Master  and  His  Scholar.    281 

and  told  its  rulers  that  by  wicked  hands  they  had 
slain  their  Lord.  It  was  he  who  told  the  same 
rulers,  when  they  commanded  him  not  to  preach  in 
Christ's  name,  that  it  was  right  to  obey  God  rather 
than  men.  And  it  was  he  who  first  saw  that  the 
Gospel  was  not  to  Jews  only,  but  to  the  whole 
world,  and  who  himself  went  among  the  Gentiles 
and  told  them  of  Christ's  love.  A  brave,  true, 
kind-hearted  man  ;  a  brave,  true  servant  of  God, 
who  was  made  both  brave  and  true  by  the  gentle- 
ness of  Christ. 


''BOB  ;'' 
SOME  CHAPTERS  OE HIS  EARLY  LI EE. 


I.  AN   EARLY  ABSTINENCE   MOVEMENT 

II.  "mere  bits  o'  brass" 

III.  FINGERS  AND   TOES  . 

IV.  "TRYING   HIS   LUCK  " 
V.  SUCCESS  AND  TRIAL 

VI.  CONCLUSION      . 


PAGE 

285 
290 
296 
302 
310 
318 


''BOB;"  SOME   CHAPTERS   OF   HIS 
EARLY   LIFE.* 


AN    EARLY   ABSTINENCE   MOVEMENT. 

IN  the  year  1842  the  abstinence  movement  was 
new  and  much  looked  down  upon.  And  it 
was  therefore  not  without  opposition  that  some 
friends  and  myself  were  permitted  to  start  a 
society  in  the  mission  district  of  the  church  to 
which  we  belonged.  We  had  Sunday-schools, 
Sunday  evening  services  for  grown-up  people,  and 
at  last,  in  addition,  this  abstinence  society. 

In  order  to  stir  up  an  interest  in  our  new  move- 
ment, and  also  to  silence  the  sneers  of  those  who 

*  The  use  of  this  little  tale  by  the  author  has  been  kindly 
granted  for  this  volume  by  the  Directors  of  the  Scottish 
Temperance  League,  who  possess  the  copyright. 


286  The  Gentle  Heart. 

said  that  no  good  would  come  of  it,  we  resolved  to 
have  a  house-to-house  visitation  of  the  district,  and 
invite  the  people  personally  to  our  first  meeting. 
It  was  while  carrying  out  this  part  of  our  plan  that 
we  first  met  with  "  Bob,"  the  story  of  whose  early 
life  I  am  about  to  tell. 

The  mission  district  was  a  street,  from  which 
long  and  crowded  courts,  or  closes,  opened  on 
either  side,  and  went  so  far  back  that  they  were 
narrow  streets  themselves.  And,  mdeed,  each  of 
these  closes  was  a  world  in  itself.  In  one  of  the 
most  open  of  them  was  a  great  stretch  of  brick 
wall,  enclosing  a  slater's  yard.  And  this  wall  we 
found  all  chalked  over  with  sketches  of  dogs'  and 
horses'  heads.  Struck  by  the  power  and  beauty  of 
these,  we  inquired  who  the  artist  was.  But  the 
only  reply  we  could  get  was — *'  Oh,  it'll  be  Bob  ; " 
or,  "  Oh,  nae  doubt  it's  some  o'  Bob's  nonsense  ;  '^ 
or  something  to  that  effect.  One  thing  only  was 
clear,  that  the  artist's  name  in  the  district  was 
''  Bob." 

We  might  never  have  known  more  than  that,  if 
we  had  not  carried  out  our  house-to-house  visita- 
tion. But  in  the  course  of  our  visiting  we  came 
across  Bob  himself.  We  found  him  to  be  a  young 
lad   about    seventeen — tall,    fair,  blue-eyed,   with 


"Bob;''  Some  Chapters  of  his  Early  Life.    287 

hair  tossed  back  in  a  mass  over  his  brow,  and 
with  a  soft  and  pleasant  voice.  He  was  living 
with  his  mother  in  a  small  "room  and  kitchen" 
house,  and  was  sitting  at  a  table  when  we  entered, 
drawing  some  figures  on  a  slate.  Entering  into 
conversation  with  his  mother  and  him,  we  found 
them  ready  to  join  our  society;  and,  in  fact, 
before  we  left  the  house  the  young  lad  had  con- 
sented to  be  a  sort  of  district  secretary  of  the 
movement. 

Before  two  days  were  over,  we  had  a  very 
effective  proof  that  our  new  secretary  was  in 
earnest.  The  sketches  of  dogs'  and  horses'  heads 
were  all  rubbed  out,  and  a  real  temperance  picture 
chalked  over  the  slateyard  wall.  At  one  end 
was  a  great  whisky-barrel,  with  open  doors  like  a 
shop,  and  a  stream  of  people  issuing  out  into  the 
street.  Beggars,  thieves,  fallen  Avomen,  drunken 
workmen,  drunken  masters,  drunkards  of  every 
age  and  class  made  up  this  procession.  At  the 
other  end  of  the  wall  was  a  gallows,  and  at  its 
foot  a  lot  of  dead  people  huddled  in  a  heap. 
The  picture  was  very  rude — as  rude  and  bald  as 
a  picture  could  well  be — but  the  meaning  was 
pretty  clear  on  the  whole,  and  it  was  made  plain 
to  everybody  by  the  words  below — "  What  comes 


288  The  Gentle  Heart. 

out  of  the  whisky-barrel."  Along  the  top  of  the 
wall  there  ran  an  announcement  of  our  meeting. 

The  meeting  was  a  great  success.  But  we  were 
much  indebted  for  that  to  Bob's  chalk  drawing. 
His  mother  and  he  were  among  the  first  to  arrive, 
and  by-and-by  our  little  hall  was  full. 

The  speaking  was  not  very  bright.  We  were  all 
beginners  in  the  work,  and  we  had  none  of  the 
facts  at  our  finger  ends  which  make  it  easy  to  fill 
a  temperance  speech  now.  But  we  did  our  best, 
and  we  got  some  of  the  people  themselves  to  say  a 
word  or  two  j  and  what  was  better  than  all,  and 
quite  unlooked  for,  we  got  a  speech  from  Bob. 

It  came  about  in  this  way.  We  were  proposing 
some  votes  of  thanks  at  the  close,  and  one  of  us 
rose  and  said  the  greatest  thanks  were  due  to  the 
artist  who  helped  us  by  his  temperance  picture. 
The  meeting  caught  up  the  idea  at  once,  and  over 
the  whole  meeting  rose  loud  cries  for  Bob,  and 
clapping  of  hands.  Bob's  face  went  very  red ;  but 
the  people  were  resolved  he  should  rise.  And  at 
last,  after  we  also  had  pressed  him  strongly,  he  got 
up  and  spoke  something  to  this  effect : — 

"  Am  nae  great  drawer  :  but  I  can  draw  better 
than  I  can  speak.  But  I  can  say  this  much,  that 
it's  a  gude  wark  we've  begun  this  nicht.     It's  the 


'^Bob;''  Some  Chapters  of  his  Early  Life.    289 

wark  o'  pittin'  down  drinking  and  saving  drinkers. 
An'  we  can  a'  help  in  this  wark  if  we  only  bide  awa 
frae  drink  oursels. 

"  I  believe  the  wark  will  succeed,  I  houp 
every  lad  and  lass  here  will  pit  doun  their  names. 
Am  gaim  to  pit  domi  mine.  No  that  the  pittin' 
doun  o'  our  names  will  make  us  sober, — but  it'll 
show  what  side  we're  on.  An'  it'll  help  to  keep 
us  awa'  frae  drink.  We  can  aye  say,  if  we're  asked 
to  drink  :  '  I've  pitten  doun  my  name.'  That's  a' 
I  have  to  say." 


290  The  Gentle  Heart. 


II. 

''mere  bits  o'  brass." 

Bob  was  little  more  than  seventeen  when  these 
events  took  place.  But  the  story  I  am  gomg 
to  tell  begins  seven  years  before.  He  was  at 
that  time  a  small  piecer  in  a  cotton  factory,  and 
his  mother  was  an  out-door  worker  for  the  same. 
The  mother's  occupation  was  "  reeling."  She  had 
a  long  wooden  reel  in  her  house,  on  which  she 
wound  hanks  of  yarn.  At  this  work  she  made 
about  five  shillings  a  week.  Bob  got  two.  This 
was  all  their  living. 

At  that  time  they  lived,  not  in  the  house  where 
I  first  saw  them,  but  in  a  miserable  single  apart- 
ment in  the  very  roof  of  a  four-storey  land.  It  was 
a  poor,  cold,  wretched  little  place.  There  was  a 
tiny  window  in  the  gable  of  the  roof,  and  a  fireplace 
as  tiny  beside  it.  The  reel  filled  one  side  of  the 
room,  the  bed  in  which  Bob  and  his  mother  slept, 
the  other;  and  there  was  hardly  room  to  move 
between.     I  never  heard  who  Bob's  father  was,  or 


^^Bohf'  Some  Chapters  of  J  as  Early  Life.  291 

whether  he  was  Hving,  or  dead,  or  anything  at  all 
about  him.  And  those  who  knew  Bob  and  his 
mother  most  intimately  knew  as  little  as  I. 

In  the  humble  attic  which  I  have  described,  this 
poor  place,  hot  in  summer  and  cold  in  winter, 
lived  Bob  and  his  mother,— Bell  was  her  Christian 
name, — in  the  year  1835,  when  my  story  begins. 
In  the  winter  evenings,  when  the  rain  was  lashing 
on  the  slates  overliead  and  sometimes  dropping 
through,  Bell  and  her  piecer-boy  Avould  draw  near 
the  mite  of  a  fireplace,  poke  the  handful  of  coals 
in  the  grate  into  a  glow  to  save  a  candle,  draw  the 
three-legged  stool  between  them,  and  take  their 
morsel  of  supper  all  alone.  And  poor  though  they 
were,  those  were  happy  times  for  these  two— and 
times  they  often  looked  back  to  with  tears  in  their 
eyes  in  the  dark  days  near  at  hand. 

At  that  time  children  as  young  as  Bob  were 
allowed  to  work  in  factories.  And  the  two  shillings 
a-week  which  he  earned  was  a  great  addition 
to  his  mother's  means.  His  work  was  to  walk 
backward  and  forward  with  the  spinning-jenny 
and  piece  up  threads  which  broke,  and  now  and 
again  to  creep  below  the  machine  and  sweep  the 
cotton  dust  from  the  floor.  It  was  not  hard  work, 
nor  very  dangerous  ;  and  if  the  spinner  happened 


292  The  Gentle  Heart. 

to  be  a  kindly  man,  children  could  be  very  happy 
at  the  work.  But  ten  years  of  age  was  very  young 
even  in  those  days.  And  it  was  an  age  when  an 
innocent  and  unsuspecting  child  might  very  easily 
be  tempted  into  crime. 

At  the  machine  next  to  the  one  where  Bob 
"  pieced  "  was  a  boy  two  years  older,  called  Ned. 
Now  Ned  had  not  even  a  mother  to  care  for  him, 
or  tell  him  what  was  good  or  bad.  And  being  but 
a  boy,  and  not  having  been  taught  to  love  anything 
better,  Ned  set  his  heart  on  sweets.  "Candy," 
"white  rock,"  "black  man,"  and  "shortbread" 
were  the  things  in  the  world  which  Ned  thought 
best  worth  having.  But  he  had  only  two  and 
sixpence  a-week,  and  it  took  all  that,  and  what 
the  parish  allowed  besides,  to  pay  for  Ned's 
lodging  and  keep.  Ned  had  once  or  twice  in 
his  life  had  a  penny,  and  he  always  spent  it  on 
sweets.  And  now  he  set  his  heart  on  having 
sweets.  Ned  fell  into  a  snare  that  is  very 
common  in  this  world.  He  fell  into  the  snare 
of  "  hasting  to  be  rich."  He  said  to  himself — "  It 
will  be  a  long  while  before  I  earn  as  much  as  will 
let  me  buy  sweets  for  myself.  But  if  I  had  some 
of  these  brass  things  lying  about,  I  could  get  as 
much  as  ever  I  wanted."     But  he  could  not  get 


''Bob;''  Some  Chapters  of  his  Early  Life.  293 

brass  things  which  were  not  his  own  without  help. 
So  he  walked  home  with  Bob  every  night  for  a 
week,  and,  bit  by  bit,  told  him  of  the  joys  of 
eating  sweets,  and  of  the  easy  way  by  which  they 
could  get  as  much  of  these  as  they  liked — "  We've 
only  to  tak  an  aul'  socket  or  twa.  An'  Bob,  they're 
useless  things — mere  bits  o'  brass — they'll  niver  be 
missed." 

I  am  telling  the  story  just  as  it  happened.  I  do 
not  wish  to  make  Ned  out  a  villain  and  Bob  an 
innocent  victim.  It  is  true,  Ned  was  older,  and 
he  was  the  tempter ;  but  Bob  knew  things  that 
Ned  never  heard  of,  and  yet  he  let  himself  be 
tempted.  He  knew  well  enough  it  was  stealing  to 
which  Ned  was  coaxing  him.  And  it  was  the 
work  of  a  thief  they  two  agreed  to  do. 

The  articles  they  stole  were  things  which  boys 
might  well  fancy  were  only  worth  as  old  brass, — 
"  Mere  bits  o'  brass," — as  Ned  said.  They  were 
spare  fittings  kept  lying  about  to  be  ready  for  use. 
And  the  boys  easily  found  a  wicked  store-keeper 
outside  to  give  them  pennies  for  each  article  they 
brought.  It  was  some  time  before  the  fittings  were 
missed.  But  after  the  thefts  had  gone  on  for 
several  weeks  the  number  of  things  missed  became 
so  great,  that  the  whole  factory  got  into  a  stir  to 


294  The  Gentle  Heart. 

find  out  the  thieves.  In  this  the  men  were  as 
earnest  as  the  masters,  and  suggested  a  plan  by 
which  the  thief  might  be  found  out. 

It  was  noticed  that  the  thefts  were  mostly  on 
the  Saturdays,  when  the  factory  closed  at  four. 
Accordingly  one  Saturday,  as  the  workpeople 
came  down  into  the  court,  they  found  two 
policemen  stationed  at  the  door,  who  searched 
each  individual  as  he  stepped  out.  Then  each 
stood  aside  to  see  their  neighbours  searched.  By- 
and-by  Ned  and  Bob,  suspecting  nothing,  came 
out  with  the  usual  bit  of  brass  in  a  sleeve  of  their 
jackets,  and  were  discovered  at  once.  Their  first 
taste  of  the  evil  of  crime  was  the  sharp  clutch  the 
policemen  took  of  their  arms,  and  the  howl  of 
anger  which  rose  up  from  the  crowd,  who  had 
waited  to  the  end. 

I  do  not  know  what  happened  in  Ned's  lodging 
that  Saturday  evening.  But  in  the  lone  attic 
where  Bell  waited  to  give  her  boy  his  tea,  what 
took  place  was  worse  than  death.  Two  police- 
men and  one  of  the  factory  foremen  came  up  and 
searched  every  corner  of  the  room,  and  although 
nothing  was  found,  she  was  told  in  a  cruel  way  of 
her  boy's  guilt,  and  informed  that  she  could  have 
no  more  work  from  the  mill. 


^^Bob;"  Some  Chapters  of  his  Early  Life.    295 

Poor,  lonely,  innocent  Bell !  Her  sorrow  was 
too  great  for  tears.  It  seemed  as  if  her  heart 
would  burst.  At  first  she  was  stunned.  Then 
she  became  excited.  Then  she  started  from  her 
seat,  and  paced  up  and  down  the  little  attic  till  far 
into  the  night.  Then  she  lay  down,  but  could  not 
sleep.  The  two  thoughts  which  chased  each  other 
through  her  soul  were — "  My  boy  a  thief!  My  boy 
in  jail ! "  On  Sunday  morning  she  tried  to  think  it 
was  all  a  dream,  and  that  Bob  had  only  been  out 
all  night.  And  then  she  listened  to  noises  below 
as  if  these  might  be  his  foot  on  the  stair.  She 
never  seemed  to  have  thought  of  going  to  see  him 
in  the  police-cells.  She  was  not  herself.  As  the 
hours  of  the  Sunday  went  on  she  still  listened  for 
his  step  on  the  stair.  She  neither  lit  her  fire  nor 
took  food  all  that  day;  and  it  was  the  end  of 
December,  and  bitterly  cold.  What  was  heat  or 
cold,  or  food  or  hunger  to  the  mother  whose  only 
child  was  in  a  police-cell  ? 


296  The  Gentle  Heart. 


III. 

FINGERS    AND    TOES. 

Drearily  dawned  that  next  Monday  morning 
in  the  poor  attic  where  Bell  had  passed  another 
miserable  night.  She  knew  that  her  boy  would 
be  brought  before  the  magistrates  that  morning, 
and  wrapping  her  thin  blue  mantle  around  her,  and 
drawing  its  hood  over  her  head,  she  tottered  rather 
than  walked — shrinking  from  the  gaze  of  every 
passer-by — to  the  Court  where  he  was  to  appear. 

She  had  not  long  to  wait ;  Ned  and  he  were 
brought  up  among  the  first.  It  was  no  bad  dream 
she  had  dreamed.  That  was  her  own  boy,  her 
one  delight  on  earth,  whom  she  beheld  in  the 
dock.  But  could  it  all  be  true  ?  Had  the  harsh 
policemen  not  made  matters  worse  than  they  were? 
Could  so  young  a  child  have  done  all  the  evil  they 
said  ?  Could  he  have  gone  on  doing  it,  and  she 
not  know?  Perhaps,  after  all,  her  boy  was  inno- 
cent j  perhaps  somebody  would  step  out  of  the 
crowd  and  say  he  was  innocent.     Alas  !     Ned  and 


''Bob;''  Some  CJiapters  of  his  Early  Life.    297 

he  had  been  taken  in  the  very  act,  and  they  did 
not  once  try  to  deny  their  crime. 

They  had  really  stolen  the  bits  of  brass  ;  they 
had  been  stealing  them  for  many  weeks.  The 
poor  children  cried  the  whole  time  of  the  trial. 
At  the  close,  each  got  sixty  days  in  Bridewell. 

As  the  two  boys  were  marched  out  of  the  Court, 
Bell  fairly  broke  down,  and  had  to  be  helped  into 
the  street. 

It  was  December  when  this  took  place.  Winter 
had  set  in  early  that  season,  and  was  very  severe. 
A  long-continued  and  hard  frost  lay  upon  the  land, 
and  great  suffering  fell  even  upon  those  who  were 
free  among  the  people.  The  suffering  was  still 
greater  in  the  prisons.  No  tenderness  had  come 
into  humane  hearts  then  on  behalf  of  prisoners. 
No  one  thought  their  health  worth  caring  for. 
The  Bridewells  were  not  heated  ;  the  bed-cover- 
ings were  scant ;  the  food  was  poor.  And  the 
frost  struck  through  with  all  its  might  at  the  two 
pitiful  children  who  were  shut  up  in  a  dismal  cell. 
Bob  suffered  the  most ;  he  was  of  a  fragile  make. 
He  had  never  been  very  strong,  and  long  before 
the  sixty  days  had  come  to  a  close  his  naked  feet 
were  bitten  with  the  frost,  and  two  of  his  toes 
ready  to  drop  off. 


298  The  Gentle  Heart. 

At  last,  however,  came  the  long-wearied-for  six- 
tieth day  when  the  poor  children  were  to  be  let 
free.  Poor  Bob  !  The  day  of  his  freedom  was  a 
day  of  sorrow.  It  was  a  cold  raw  February  day, 
a  bitter  east  wind  blowing  along  the  street,  and 
the  pavement  wet  with  the  slush  of  snow  that  had 
fallen  the  night  before.  About  a  dozen  prisoners 
were  to  be  let  out  that  morning,  and  a  crowd  of 
poor  people  who  expected  them  were  gathered 
about  the  gate.  One  here,  and  another  there, 
gave  a  joyful  cry  as  they  got  back  some  member 
of  their  circle.  Bob  had  thought  that  his  mother 
would  be  surely  there.  He  had  often  wondered 
why  she  had  not  come  to  see  him,  but  the  thought 
that  he  should  meet  her  now  had  kept  him  awake 
the  only  part  of  the  night  when  the  pain  in  his 
foot  was  quiet  enough  to  let  him  sleep.  He 
looked  eagerly  round,  but  she  was  nowhere  in 
that  crowd,  and  tears  came  into  his  eyes  as  he 
edged  side-wise  from  the  throng  and  began  to 
"  hirple "  towards  his  old  home.  It  was  slow 
work.  He  could  only  put  the  heel  of  his  disabled 
foot  to  the  ground,  and  to  do  even  that  much  was 
pain.  Often  he  rested  by  the  way.  Then  pains 
of  another  kind  shot  through  his  heart.  As  he 
came  near  the  court  where  he  was  so  well  known, 


"Bob;^^  Some  Chapters  of  his  Early  Life.    299 

and  in  which  he  had  gained  so  early  an  evil  repu- 
tation, shame  took  hold  upon  him.  He  was  afraid 
to  be  seen ;  afraid  that  people  would  reproach 
him  ;  afraid  that  his  mother  would  never  love  him 
again;  but  afraid  most  of  all,  perhaps,  lest  he 
should  meet  the  policemen  who  had  taken  him 
first  to  prison. 

At  length  he  was  at  the  foot  of  the  long  "  turn- 
pike "  stair  that  led  up  to  his  mother's  attic.  The 
pain  in  going  up  the  steps  was  terrible.  Several 
times  he  had  to  sit  down  and  rest.  At  the  last 
flight  of  steps  he  had  to  crawl  on  hands  and 
knees.  He  began  to  be  terribly  shaken  and 
afraid.  There  was  no  neighbour,  no  "but-and- 
ben  "  on  the  landing.  As  he  crawled  upwards  he 
heard  no  sound ;  the  stillness  was  like  the  grave. 
When  he  came  to  the  door  his  strength  was  ut- 
terly gone.  He  could  not  reach  up  to  the  latch. 
''  Mother,"  he  cried ;  but  no  mother  appeared. 
He  knocked,  but  there  was  no  answer.  Strug- 
gling up  in  a  last  effort  of  strength  to  the  latch,  he 
tried  to  open  the  door  \  it  was  locked.  He  sunk 
down  on  the  threshold  and  sobbed  aloud.  He  must 
have  lain  huddled  up  in  that  state  for  some  hours, 
and  fallen  asleep.  What  he  next  remembered  was 
the  confusion  of  voices  at  the  foot  of  the  stair. 


300  The  Gentle  Heart. 

"  Somebody's  moanin'  at  Bell's  door." 
'•'  Div  ye  say  sae  ?  Wha  can  it  be  ?  " 
"  Has  she  maybe  died  in  the  Infirmary,  think 


ye 


?" 


"  Weel,  they  do  say  that  people  that  dee  there 
aften  come  back  to  their  auld  hoose  afore  leavin' 
the  yirth." 

"  Havers,  woman  !  That's  nae  ghost !  It's  some 
leevin'  body  in  pain." 

And  then  Bob  saw  the  heads  of  four  or  five 
neighbouring  women  peering  up  at  him  from  the 
stair.  "  Losh,  me,"  said  one  of  them,  "it's  Bob." 
'•'  I  declare  it's  Bell's  laddie  hame  again  !  "  And  the 
same  voice  added,  "  O  laddie,  laddie,  ye  hae  dune 
muckle  mischief  Yir  mither's  in  the  Infirmary 
wi'  the  fivver." 

When  Bob  heard  this  last  sentence,  the  whole 
truth  flashed  upon  his  mind.  At  a  glance  he 
seemed  to  see  the  connection  between  his  crime 
and  his  mother's  illness.  He  understood  now 
why  she  had  never  come  to  see  him.  His  sobs 
burst  out  anew,  and  became  a  low  despairing  cry. 
"  O  ma  mither,  ma  mither  ! "  he  cried.  And  in 
his  grief  and  pain  and  weakness,  the  poor  child 
fainted  away. 

When  he  came  to  himself  he  was  on  a  shake- 


"Bob;''  Some  Chapters  of  his  Early  Life.    301 

down  in  the  warm  kitchen  of  one  of  the  houses  on 
the  landing  below.  I  will  give  the  name  of  the 
Samaritan  who  took  him  in.  It  was  Mrs.  Green- 
wood, the  Lady  Bountiful  of  that  little  world,  the 
kind-hearted  wife  of  a  kind-hearted  man.  When 
the  two  heard  that  the  boy  was  home  and  ill,  they 
opened  their  door  and  "  took  him  in." 

Bob  never  forgot  the  kindness  received  from 
these  two  that  night.  It  was  the  nearest  approach 
to  Heaven  he  had  ever  known.  It  was  a  kindness 
that  did  not  work  by  halves ;  they  kept  the  boy 
till  his  mother  was  better,  and  back  in  her  home. 


302  The  Gentle  Heart. 


IV. 

"trying  his  luck." 

It  was  a  long  while  before  Bob  was  able  to  walk, 
and  when  he  got  out  again  it  was  with  eight  toes 
instead  of  ten.  That  was  a  terrible  infliction  for 
his  mother  and  him.  It  was  loss  of  bread.  The 
mill  district  of  the  city  at  that  time  was  little 
better  than  a  village.  Everybody  knew  everybody 
else.  And  Bell  and  her  boy  were  only  too  well 
known.  The  toes  were  a  sort  of  Cain's  mark  on 
the  boy — a  certificate  of  conduct  telling  the  wrong 
way.  He  was  too  poor  to  have  shoes.  The  toes 
told  of  Bridewell;  and  Bridewell  brought  back 
the  story  of  the  bits  of  brass.  And  factory  after 
factory  refused  to  receive  him  within  their  gates. 

By  the  help  of  some  neighbours,  Bell  got  work 
for  her  reel  \  but  she  was  no  longer  able  for  the 
amount  of  work  she  could  do  before  her  illness : 
and  the  want  of  Bob's  wages  made  a  great  differ- 
ence in  her  means. 

But  God  was  kind.     Gifts  from  unknown  givers 


'^Bob;''  Some  Chapters  of  his  Early  Life.    303 

came  to  them  in  the  form  of  coals  and  potatoes 
and  meal.  Bob  was  able  now  and  again  to  gain  a 
penny  by  holding  horses  on  market  days,  and  run- 
ning messages.  And  the  Greenwoods  remained 
fast  friends  to  him  till  his  troubles  were  over. 

Although  Mr.  Greenwood  lived  "  up  a  close," 
he  was  a  man  of  some  wealth.  He  lived  in  the 
back  land  because  it  was  his  own  ;  and  in  the  land 
fronting  the  street  he  had  a  clothier's  shop.  This 
was  a  main  resort  for  Bob  j  and  he  was  always 
made  welcome  there.  Mr.  Greenwood  saw  that 
the  boy  had  learned  by  what  he  had  suffered ;  and 
that  he  was  turned  away  from  dishonest  ways  for 
ever.  He  believed  in  the  boy  and  trusted  him, 
and  contrived  many  a  message  just  to  give  Bob 
the  pleasure  of  earning  an  honest  penny.  But  he 
did  more  than  that.  He  encouraged  the  boy  to 
spend  his  leisure  time  in  learning.  And  sitting  at 
the  friendly  fire  in  the  cutting-room.  Bob  learned 
to  be  a  thoroughly  good  reader,  and  found  out  that 
he  had  a  gift  for  drawing.  There  was  a  slate  in 
the  shop  on  which  many  a  rude  drawing  was  made 
with  the  fine  chalk  used  by  clothiers.  And  the 
kindly  man  would  stop  his  work  to  admire  a  face, 
or  a  tree,  or  a  bridge,  when  the  boy  tried  to  draw 
these  objects  on  the  slate. 


304  The  Gentle  Heart. 

One  morning  the  clothier  was  sitting  on  his 
bench  reading  the  weekly  paper  as  Bob  came  in. 
"  Bob,"  he  said,  "  I  see  something  in  the  paper 
this  morning  that  will  do  for  you."  It  was  an 
advertisement  by  a  great  pattern-designing  and  art 
publishing  firm  for  an  apprentice.  ''  Look  here, 
Bob,"  the  eager  friend  said,  "  the  only  condition 
is,  that  the  boy  must  have  a  taste  for  drawing." 

But  Bob  replied  :  ''  They  will  look  at  my  taes." 
"  No  ; "  said  Mr.  Greenwood,  "  and  don't  you  say 
anything  about  your  toes.  And  nobody  now  has 
any  business  to  ask  you  about  the  past.  You  have 
suffered  plenty  already  by  these  toes.  At  any  rate, 
you  go  and  try ;  and  go  this  very  forenoon. 

Bob  returned  home  and  told  his  mother.  He 
was  made  as  tidy  and  clean  as  possible.  And 
looking  in  as  he  passed  at  his  friend's  shop,  the 
boy  set  off,  as  Mr.  Greenwood  said,  ''  to  try  his 
luck." 

He  knew  the  building  well  at  whose  door  he  had 
to  knock.  Often  he  had  passed  it  when  going 
messages.  Often  had  he  looked  in  the  winter 
evenings  at  its  three  tiers  of  windows  all  lighted 
up.  Often  on  such  evenings  had  he  marked  the 
flitting  shadows  of  the  printers  as  they  moved 
among  the  presses.      Often  he  had  been  struck 


^^Bob;''  Some  Chapters  of  his  Early  Life.    305 

in  the  daytime  with  the  great  rope  dangling  from 
the  topmost  storey  at  one  end  and  swinging  up  and 
down  great  bales  of  paper.  Oftener  still,  he  had 
stopped  for  a  moment  at  the  beautiful  porch  at  the 
other  end,  and  looked  through  the  glass  door  at 
the  fine  pictures  and  statues  which  were  ranged 
around  the  walls  of  the  entrance  hall.  At  this  very 
door  he  stood  this  morning,  but  with  fear  filling 
his  heart.  What  chance  had  he,  so  poor,  so  rag- 
ged, to  be  received  in  a  place  so  fine  ? 

And,  indeed,  he  seemed  very  poor.  No  wonder 
the  junior  partner,  Mr.  Bathgate,  looked  at  him  as 
he  was  shown  into  his  room.  He  was  still  a  tiny- 
looking  boy — he  had  not  begun  yet  to  shoot  up 
into  the  tall  youth  he  had  become  when  we  first 
met  with  him.  And  he  was  bare-footed.  And  his 
trowsers,  through  honest  wear,  were  more  like 
knickerbockers  than  trowsers.  His  jacket  also  was 
too  small  for  him.  The  cap  he  held  in  his  hand 
was  not  without  a  hole  or  two.  But  over  against 
all  this,  there  was  an  intelligent  face,  two  honest 
eyes,  hair  combed  beautifully  to  one  side,  and  hands 
and  legs  and  face  as  clean  as  water  could  make  them. 
This  was  the  conversation  which  followed  : — 
'^  You  want  to  become  our  apprentice,  my  little 
man  ?  " 


3o6  The  Gentle  Heart. 

"  Can  you  draw  ?  " 

"  A  wee." 

"  What  can  you  draw  ?  " 

"  Dougs  and  horses  and  trees." 

''  Who  taught  you  ?  " 

"Masell." 

''  Well,  take  this  home  with  you,  and  let  me  see 
what  sort  of  copy  you  can  make  of  it." 

Mr.  Bathgate  took  a  wood- engraved  landscape 
from  a  desk,  a  sheet  of  cardboard,  and  a  pencil, 
wrapped  them  up  for  the  boy,  and  told  him  to 
come  back  when  he  had  made  a  copy. 

Whoever  saw  Bob  that  forenoon  as  he  turned 
his  steps  towards  his  home,  saw  a  boy  who  ran  as 
if  he  had  wings.  He  seemed  to  himself  to  have 
become  suddenly  the  heir  of  a  great  possession. 
The  sheet  of  cardboard,  the  new  pencil,  the  fine 
engraving;  he  had  never  had  such  things  in  his 
hand  before.  He  did  not  stop  till  he  reached  his 
patron's  shop,  and  unrolled  his  treasure  on  his  cut- 
ting board.  But  Mr.  Greenwood's  heart  gave  way 
a  little  when  he  saw  the  landscape.  "  Can  you 
manage  this,  do  you  think.  Bob  ?  "  "  I'll  try,"  said 
Bob.  And  away  he  ran  up  the  long  stairs  to  his 
mother. 


*^Bob;"  Some  Chapters  of  his  Early  Life.  307 

He  heard  the  reel  as  he  came  up  the  stair. 
There  she  was,  when  the  boy  pushed  open  the 
door — winding,  winding,  winding.  The  only  events 
of  her  Hfe  were  going  to  the  mill  for  copes,  and 
returning  with  hanks — and,  besides  that,  seeing  her 
boy  come  in  at  the  door.  To-day  he  was  unlike 
what  she  had  ever  seen  him.  He  seemed  to  have 
grown  taller.  His  face  was  filled  with  eager  hope. 
He  was  panting  to  tell  her  what  had  taken  place. 
But  he  had  also  a  great  favour  to  ask.  "  Mither, 
could  you  give  me  a  penny  ?  "  Do  not  smile — 
you  to  whom  a  penny  is  nothing — to  whom  a  sove- 
reign is  less  than  a  penny  to  these  two.  "A  penny, 
Bob  ?  "  "  Ay,  mither — to  get  a  penny  cawnle.  I'll 
hae  to  sit  up  a  while  after  ye've  geen  to  bed."  Bob 
got  the  penny,  changed  that  for  a  candle,  and  at 
once  settled  down  to  his  task. 

He  had  a  good  many  hours  yet  of  daylight,  and 
he  used  them  well.  He  had  never  worked  with  so 
soft  a  pencil,  or  on  paper  so  fit  for  drawing.  And 
he  worked  with  great  care.  Then,  when  evening 
came  on,  he  lit  his  candle  and  still  continued  to 
work.  His  mother  went  to  bed ;  but  Bob  worked 
on.  He  heard  the  cuckoo-clock  in  the  house  be- 
low striking  the  hours  till  far  into  the  morning. 
About  four  o'clock  he  laid  down  his  pencil.     The 


308  The  Gentle  Heart. 

task  was  done.  Then  he  set  the  fire  for  his 
mother's  brealcfast,  put  the  kettle  near,  and  sHpped 
into  bed. 

At  ten  o'clock  he  was  at  Mr.  Bathgate's  office 
door. 

"  What !  "  said  that  gendeman,  "  are  you  back 
again  .?  The  work  has  been  too  hard  for  you,  I 
fear." 

''  No." 

"  But  you  can't  have  done  it  already." 

"Ay;  it's  here." 

"This!  Did  jw/  do  this  ?  You?  Yourself? 
When  did  you  do  it  ?" 

"  I  sat  up  a'  nicht  till  I  finished  it." 

"  Did  you  though?     Sat  up  till  you  did  it?" 

Just  then  Mr.  Currie,  the  other  partner,  came  in ; 
and  the  two  went  into  an  inner  room  and  had  a 
long  examination  of  the  copy.  It  had  been  beau- 
tifully done.  At  last  coming  back  into  the  room 
where  Bob  was,  they  said, — 

"  We  are  very  much  pleased  with  the  copy  you 
have  made.  You  would  make  a  capital  designen 
But  we  are  afraid  our  place  will  hardly  suit  you." 

Bob's  heart  sank. 

"  We  give  no  wages  to  our  apprentices  ;  and  our 
apprentices  have  to  pay  us  for  teaching  them." 


'^Bob;''  Some  Chapters  of  his  Early  Life.    309 

There  was  a  little  quiver  on  the  boy's  lips  as  he 
answered,  ''But  I  maun  hae  wages;  I  maun  try  to 
help  my  mither  now." 

The  two  partners  looked  at  each  other  for  a 
moment,  and  went  into  the  inner  room  again.  In 
a  short  time  one  of  them  came  out  and  said, — 
"  Come  back  here  on  Monday,  and  we'll  think 
over  your  application  till  then." 

When  Bob  returned  on  Monday,  he  was  told 
they  were  so  much  pleased  with  the  copy  he  had 
drawn,  that  they  had  resolved  to  make  an  exception 
in  his  favour.  They  would  take  him  without  a 
premium,  and  they  would  give  him  three  and  six- 
pence a  week  the  first  year  of  his  apprenticeship. 
He  might  begin  next  day. 

That  was  a  day  of  joy  in  the  little  world  where 
the  principal  people  were  the  Greenwoods,  and 
Bell,  and  her  boy.  Mr.  Greenwood  rigged  up  the 
boy  in  a  new  suit  of  clothes,  which  he  could  pay 
for  when  he  was  rich.  He  got  his  neighbour  the 
shoemaker  to  give  a  pair  of  shoes  on  the  same 
terms.     And  Bob's  luck  began. 


310  The  Gentle  Heart. 


V. 

SUCCESS   AND   TRIAL. 


Bob  succeeded  beyond  all  expectation.  He  be- 
came one  of  the  best  designers  and  draughtsmen 
in  the  establishment.  At  the  end  of  two  years  he 
was  receiving  ten  shillings  a-week,  and  able  to  take 
a  better  house  for  his  mother.  And  long  before 
the  seven  years  of  his  apprenticeship  were  finished, 
he  was  the  most  trusted  man  in  the  place,  and  the 
one  to  whom  a  difficult  piece  of  work  was  certain 
to  be  sent.  When  his  time  was  out,  the  partners 
marked  their  satisfaction  with  him  by  making  him 
a  gift  of  money  and  a  beautiful  watch,  and  at  the 
same  time  appointing  him  manager  over  a  special 
department  of  their  work. 

But  Bob  was  not  to  enter  on  his  new  kingdom 
without  both  trial  and  sorrow.  It  was  at  that  time 
a  universal  custom  in  workshops  and  warehouses 
for  workmen  to  give  *^  treats  "  of  drink  on  all  the 
great  occasions  of  their  career.  There  was  the 
" 'prentice  pint,"  the  "journeyman  pint,"  and  the 


''Boh;''  Some  Chapters  of  his  Early  Life.   3 1 1 

"foreman  pint"  Bob's  poverty  had  excused  him 
from  the  first.  But  when  he  became  journeyman 
and  manager  at  one  step,  his  fellow  workmen  de- 
manded a  special  treat. 

But  Bob  had,  long  before  this,  been  drawn  into 
our  abstinence  work.  He  was  the  secretary  of  our 
district  society,  and  about  to  be  made  president. 
He  was  the  leading  spirit  of  our  movement,  and  in 
thorough  earnest.  And  he  flatly  refused  to  give 
the  treat  demanded.  Mortal  offence  was  taken. 
I  can  look  back  to  those  times  and  vividly  recall 
them.  Not  designers  and  printers  only,  but  minis- 
ters of  the  gospel  as  well,  were  expected  to  give 
these  ""  treats."  A  young  minister  coming  into  a 
Presbytery  had  to  give  a  bottle  of  wine ;  and  whe- 
ther he  drank  or  not,  he  had  to  pay  his  share  of 
what  others  drank  at  the  Presbytery  dinners.  It 
is  difficult  to  believe  now  that  anger  so  deep  and 
bitter  could  be  cherished  towards  the  men  who  had 
the  courage  to  refuse  such  demands.  This  anger 
came  out  in  full  strength,  and  over  all  the  works, 
against  Bob.  "  What  !  was  he  to  set  up  to  be 
better  than  his  neighbours  ?  Were  the  back-books 
of  his  life  so  clean  that  he  set  up  to  be  the  sober 
man  of  the  works  ?  It  was  mean.  It  was  miserly. 
Only  a  sneak  and  a  churl  would  act  in  that  way." 


312  The  Gentle  Heart. 

And  Bob  saw  in  the  averted  looks  and  short  snap- 
pish answers  he  got,  and  in  the  sneery  laughter  of 
the  workmen  when  he  had  occasion  to  pass,  how 
greatly  he  had  offended  them. 

One  morning  when  he  came  to  his  desk  he  found 
a  drawing  of  a  right  foot  with  only  three  toes  on 
it.  That  was  the  morning  of  the  day  he  came  to 
my  lodgings  and  told  me  of  his  sorrows,  with  tears 
in  his  eyes. 

But  there  was  worse  to  follow. 

The  evil  customs  which  prevailed  among  work- 
people had  companion  customs  among  the  masters. 
Bargains  were  made  and  accounts  settled  in  the 
dram-shop — and  when  it  was  not  there,  it  was  in  the 
private  parlour  of  the  office,  over  wine  and  spirits. 
This  latter  was  looked  upon  as  the  genteeler  way. 
And  this  was  the  way  the  great  art-printing  and 
publishing  house  of  Currie  &  Bathgate  did. 

Now  Bob's  new  position  gave  him  a  room  in  the 
premises  which  led  into  the  private  parlour.  The 
ingenious  malice  of  his  enemies  resolved  to  strike 
him  in  his  most  tender  part.  One  forenoon,  when 
Mr.  Bathgate  entered  the  private  parlour  with  a 
customer,  he  found  the  cupboard  in  which  the 
wines  were  kept  had  been  tampered  with,  and  a 
bottle  of  the  rarest  taken  away.     Nothing  was  said 


'^Bob;''  Some  CJiapters  of  his  Early  Life.  313 

that  day ;  but  the  same  thing  was  noticed  a  few 
days  later  by  Mr.  Currie. 

Before  long  several  bottles  were  taken.  Now 
nobody  could  enter  this  parlour  by  day  unobserved 
by  Bob.  And  nobody  could  so  easily  get  access 
to  the  wine  as  he.  But  to  do  his  masters  justice, 
they  never  once  suspected  him.  There  the  malice 
of  his  enemies  was  completely  at  fault.  They  had 
planned  their  wickedness  so  that  suspicion  should 
fall  on  their  victim.  But  their  victim's  character 
was  now  a  divine  shield  around  him. 

Still  the  thefts  went  on,  and  began  to  be  talked 
about  among  the  men.  The  heads  of  the  firm 
resolved  to  sift  the  matter  to  the  bottom.  Mr. 
Bathgate  sent  for  Bob  one  afternoon  into  the  pri- 
vate parlour,  and  laid  a  slip  of  paper  before  him 
on  which  these  words  were  written  :  "  Search  the 
young  foreman's  room,  you  will  find  the  bottles 
there."  And  the  bottles  were  actually  all  found 
there  that  afternoon.  "  Now,  Robert,"  said  the 
friendly  master,  "  this  is  a  plot  to  hurt  you.  But  it 
is  also  a  wickedness  which  must  not  be  permitted  in 
our  works.  AVhoever  is  the  doer  of  it  must  work 
by  night,  for  if  it  were  done  by  day  you  must  have 
found  it  out.  Give  me  the  key  of  your  room  for  a 
night  or  two,  and  I  will  set  a  watch  myself" 


3T4  The  Gentle  Heart. 

Robert  was  in  the  act  of  thanking  his  master  for 
his  good  opinion  of  him,  and  was  handing  over  his 
key,  when  the  night  porter  knocked  at  the  door. 
A  great  hamper  had  been  deUvered  in  the  yard, 
and  there  was  some  living  creature  in  it.  Along 
with  the  hamper  came  a  letter.  It  was  from  Mr. 
Bathgate's  brother,  the  captain  of  a  vessel  trading 
to  North  America.  He  had  been  asked  to  bring 
a  bear  over  to  some  zoological  garden.  He  had 
no  convenience  to  keep  it  in  the  ship  after  the  men 
had  left.  Could  his  brother  get  it  chained  up  in 
his  yard  for  a  night  or  two,  till  it  could  be  sent  off 
to  its  destination. 

With  great  ado  the  bear  was  taken  to  the  yard  at 
the  other  end  of  the  warehouse,  and  fastened  up 
by  its  chain.  More  than  an  hour  was  spent  over 
this  business,  and  Bob  and  his  master  parted  for 
the  night. 

It  was  a  very  eventful  night  for  him.  His 
enemies  had  resolved  to  complete  his  shame  that 
night.  The  wine  press  was  to  be  opened  once 
more  and  a  bottle  broken,  and  its  contents  spilled 
over  the  floor  of  Bob's  room.  The  young  fore- 
man's office-coat  was  to  be  dipped  in  the  spilt  wine, 
and  to  crown  all,  the  skeleton  key  by  which  the 
press  was  opened  was  to  be  slipped  into  its  pocket. 


'^Bob;''  Some  Chapters  of  his  Early  Life.  315 

All  this  was  done,  and  all  this  was  discovered 
by  Mr.  Bathgate  in  the  morning  when  he  entered 
the  room.  He  came  early,  before  the  bell  had 
rung.  A  single  glance  sufficed  to  show  him  how 
matters  stood.  What  he  saw  had  been  carefully 
planned  ;  but  those  who  planned  it  had  never  cal- 
culated that  the  masters  would  take  the  foreman's 
side.  Was  it  conspiracy?  Was  it  the  work  of 
only  one  ?  But  how  could  any  one  have  done 
what  he  saw  ?  He  was  himself  the  last  to  leave 
the  building.  He  had  seen  even  the  porter  leave 
before  him,  and  he  was  the  first  to  arrive  in  the 
morning.  A  little  while  after  came  the  porter,  and 
began  to  light  up  the  corridors  and  printing-rooms. 
By-and-by  the  various  workpeople  arrived.  Mr. 
Bathgate,  completely  puzzled,  was  waiting  in  his 
office,  wondering  what  next  step  should  be  taken 
to  find  out  the  culprit,  when  the  porter  rushed  in, 
under  great  excitement,  and  told  him  that  the  bear 
had  nearly  killed  a  man.  And  sure  enough,  when 
they  went  to  the  yard  in  which  the  bear  was 
chained,  they  saw  a  form  huddled  up  in  a  corner 
and  moaning  between  fear  and  pain.  And  they 
found  the  bear  in  a  great  rage,  stretched  to  the  full 
length  of  his  chain,  and  pawing  at  the  crouching 
form  to  get  it  into  its  grasp. 


3i6  The  Gentle  Hea7't. 

In  this  strange  way  the  mystery  was  laid  bare. 
The  workman  who  had  been  detailed  by  those  in 
the  plot  to  bring  Bob  into  trouble  had  secreted 
himself  in  the  top  storey  of  the  building,  and  after 
the  mischief  already  described  was  wrought,  had 
gone,  as  he  had  done  night  after  night  before,  to 
the  rope  used  for  swinging  up  and  down  the  bales 
of  paper,  to  slide  himself  down  into  the  yard,  from 
whence,  by  climbing  the  wall,  he  could  get  away 
unperceived. 

But  the  bear  was  an  unexpected  actor  on  the 
scene,  and  not  until  the  miserable  wretch  was  near 
the  lower  end  of  the  rope  did  he  become  aware  of 
its  presence.  Then  he  heard  its  breathing,  then  a 
harsh  grunt  or  two,  and  before  he  could  escape  he 
was  in  the  arms  of  this  terrible  creature.  It  would 
have  been  a  relief  to  him  to  have  known  that  it 
was  a  bear ;  he  thought  it  was  something  infinitely 
worse.  In  his  mortal  terror  he  got  loose  from  its 
first  embrace,  but  the  yard  was  too  little  for  him  to 
escape  entirely.  He  could  not  get  near  the  wall 
over  which  he  expected  to  climb.  It  was  to  that 
wall  the  bear  was  chained.  He  could  only  dodge 
about  in  the  opposite  corners  to  escape  the 
clutches  of  his  dark-looking  enemy.  This  unequal 
battle  had  lasted  the  whole  night  long.     At  last, 


''Bob;''  Some  Chapters  of  his  Early  Life.  317 

completely  cowed  and  prostrate,  he  gave  in,  and 
was  found  more  dead  than  alive  crouched  up  in  a 
corner  of  the  yard. 

I  need  not  dwell  on  what  followed.  The  half- 
dozen  who  had  plotted  the  mischief  were  dismissed. 
And  Bob  found  himself  higher  in  the  esteem  of 
his  masters,  and  at  last  of  his  fellow  workmen  as 
well,  than  before.  The  affair  led  to  another  result 
that  was  good  :  the  firm  closed  the  wine  parlour, 
and  were  among  the  first  in  the  city  to  give  up  the 
practice  of  treating  their  customers  to  drink. 


3i8  The  Gentle  Heart. 


VI. 
CONCLUSION. 

Bob's  next  advance  was  Paris.  The  firm  sent  him 
there  to  study  the  designs  of  the  Continent,  and 
adapt  them  for  English  goods.  The  ragged  boy 
who  began  at  three  and  sixpence  a  week  was  now 
a  well-dressed,  thoroughly  educated  artist,  with  a 
salary  of  three  hundred  pounds ;  and  so  well  did 
he  acquit  himself  in  his  new  sphere  that  at  the  end 
of  a  few  years  he  was  asked  to  join  the  firm,  and 
open  a  branch  of  their  house  in  London. 

Although  he  changed  in  many  things,  there  was 
no  change  in  his  love  for  his  mother.  He  was  her 
stay  and  comfort  as  long  as  she  lived.  His  respect 
for  her  was  very  beautiful.  He  bought  a  cottage 
for  her  in  the  outskirts  of  the  city,  and  supplied  her 
with  every  comfort  she  could  desire.  He  spent 
his  holidays  in  her  society.  On  these  occasions 
he  took  her  little  jaunts,  and  attended  to  her  dress 
and  winter  stores.  When  absent  from  her  he  wrote 
a  long  letter  every  Sunday  evening,  in  which  he 


^'Boh;''  Some  Chapters  of  his  Early  Life,  319 

gave,  just  as  he  had  given  when  he  was  a  lad,  an 
account  of  the  sermons  he  had  heard.  He  would 
willingly  have  taken  her  to  London  to  keep  house 
for  him,  but  this  she  steadily  refused.  She  was  too 
old  to  learn  London  ways ;  she  would  have  been  an 
object  of  derision  to  some,  a  subject  of  gossip  to 
others.  Her  ways  were  old-fashioned,  her  speech 
was  broadly  Scotch.  She  could  never  have  managed 
servants.  Only  once  did  he  prevail  on  her  to  come 
and  see  him.  It  was  to  visit  the  second  Exhibi- 
tion ;  but  the  confusion  and  noise  were  too  much 
for  her,  and  he  did  not  press  her  to  come  again. 

The  last  time  I  saw  Bob  was  at  his  mother's 
funeral.  He  had  become  by  that  time  a  famous 
man  in  his  art,  and  no  one  could  have  supposed, 
when  they  looked  at  the  tall,  fair-haired  gentleman, 
who  stood,  with  moist  eyes,  and  uncovered,  at  the 
grave,  or  heard  him  speak  his  thanks  to  the  com- 
pany in  the  sweet  English  speech  to  which  he  had 
attained,  that  this  was  the  same  being  who  thirty 
years  before  had  been  a  poor  outcast  boy  seeking 
work  in  vain  in  the  neighbouring  mills. 


Butlor  i  Tauncr.  TLe  Selwood  Priutiug  Works,  Fromc,  and  Loudon. 


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